Catowl Trio

Three dimorphs have started a jazz band, and rehearsals, by the look of it, never happened. The pink one blows a saxophone with striped eyes half-shut — he clearly hasn't slept at all, playing on autopilot, half-asleep, and probably wouldn't notice if the solo cut off mid-note. The green one is the opposite case entirely — hugging an upright bass bigger than itself, eyes wide open, tongue hanging out from sheer effort, paws gripping the neck as if this one note were holding up the whole party. The blue one at the theremin is the only true professional here: the instrument has no keys — the sound is caught by a paw moving through open air — and that paw hovers over the antenna with surgical precision, while its eyes stare straight at the viewer, either part of the act or an old performer's habit of never looking at its own hands.

Dimorphs rarely get to have fun without a reason — here, they do. Electric flares crackle above all three heads, confetti-colored sparks fly with the first note. None of them is watching the others, each lost in its own note — and that's exactly why the whole thing won't fall apart: too different to get in each other's way, too absorbed to hit a wrong one. A few more bars, and this is definitely going to be a song.