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"Hey, look, a bird."
She frowned, slightly.
"No, not like that kind of bird, a bird, one of the flying ones." He pointed, to be slightly more helpful. He was also pointing up, as if to emphasise the point that it wasn't an Earth-bound bird (and by that I don't mean chicken).
"That's not a bird."
"No, no, up there."
"No, I know up there," she pointed, "what I'm saying is that's not a bird." She kept stabbing at the air where, had her finger been a few dozen metres longer, the bird was. Where the bird-in-question was, I mean. And where it would be quite surprised to find itself being repeatedly poked by an extraordinarily long finger emphatically erm... emphasising every other word.
"Ah. I see. Ehm... what is it, then?"
"A cloud, maybe? It is not a bird."
"Mmm hmm. I'm pretty sure it's a bird." He pointed at the thing in question. "I'd be willing to call it maybe a duck, or oh! Hey! Maybe an armadillo!" ^{[a deed not unheard of]}
She continued to look at the purported armadillo without saying a whole lot more. In fact, she retracted her arm that had been so keen on pointing not a few seconds ago. He looked on, expectantly, waiting for the glimpse of recognition in her eyes. He got distracted, for a moment, by a piece of deli paper wafting by, but soon regained his watchful composure. Her eyelashes were quite long, he noticed. Well, not obscenely long, but long in the sort of way that women, when chatting, would likely comment to her, "You have such nice long beautiful lashes!" and mean it. The thought crossed his mind that he stood a good chance of being slapped, based on past experience and the length of silence he was now encountering here.
"But I'd be willing to consider it being a cloud, definitely. As a matter of fact, yes, cloud."

A man, overhearing the exchange, stood up from the bench at which he'd been comfortably seated, enjoying a ham and cheese toastie. And, on a sprint, he bowled right into the man and woman to bring a quick end to something that seemed like it might just wobble on forever and just get more and more ridiculous.
The armadillo swooped down and licked the bald spot on the bowling man's, as we'll call him for the remainder of the issue, head.

disclaimer:
Remember your haircut in the eighties? You're damn right change is a good thing.

Now, Laurence Sterne was all for writing on an empty stomach, but I'm not too keen on that method, myself, I usually just get easily distracted and wind up writing about armadilloes or HobNobs or something.