Baby R. gots some new game.
He's punked up, grundge up his feathers, busted a move and flown the nest.
Turns out that while Baby R. (Or as he now calls himself: Raw) actually can fly, sorta, he really doesn't like the whole chasing down worms thing. He'd much rather perch on a patio chair and yell for Mom to come feed him.
(Mom's in the tree in your upper right hand corner of the above shot.)
graffiti inked on his ankle or something.