Morning light spilled over the green farmyard. Behind the coop, the little yellow chick pressed himself flat against a wooden post.
He opened his beak wide, but only a whisper came out. The hens clucked nearby, and he tucked his wings tight against his sides.
A bright blue butterfly drifted past the fence and dove toward the dark trees at the edge of the woods.
The chick followed, one claw lifting, then the other, until the trees swallowed the path. The air was cool and sweet.
He pushed through a curtain of drooping willow branches and blinked. Moonlight laid silver across a still, glassy pond.
His foot slipped on a wet stone and he let out a soft squeak. Three frogs on lily pads turned to look at him.
A frog tapped his lily pad. "Our next note is yours!" the frog chirped, looking straight at the little chick.
The chick closed his eyes and let out a clear, ringing peep. It surprised him — his own voice, bright and bold.
The frogs leaped into a splashy chorus. Fireflies swirled into a glittering ring around the little chick's bright yellow feathers.
Dawn painted the sky in soft pink. The chick stood on the porch rail, puffed his chest, and sang straight to the rooster.
The rooster answered with a loud crow that shook the apple leaves. Picaritu bowed with his wings wide as the farm woke up.
The whole farm listened. Even the hens stopped clucking to hear the little chick sing his song under the waking sky.
