Deep in the whispering forest, little Prisma heard a tiny peep.
She crept forward and found a black starling shivering beneath a mushroom cap. Its left wing was bent.
She opened her palms. 'I'll help you,' she whispered. The starling hopped onto her fingers, then fluttered down when the ground trembled. She scooped it up and walked toward the tall oaks.
A silver river blocked her path. The whispers grew loud. She tossed twigs and stacked stones, but each collapsed into the water.
Then she spotted a line of jumping frogs along a hidden log. The starling pecked her elbow insistently.
Halfway across the log, the starling lost its grip and tumbled toward the current. Prisma dropped flat and stretched her arm out.
She dragged the starling onto her shoulder. It chirped a bright triumphant tune against her ear, and she kept going.
At a high branch, Prisma settled the starling into a snug hollow lined with soft green moss.
The starling hopped close and nudged her nose twice with its beak.
The forest whispered something warm and sweet. Prisma sat beside the branch until the starling fell asleep.
