Sunlight spilled across the clearing. The old oak held a mossy hollow on its thickest branch, and inside that hollow, a tiny egg was wiggling.
Warble wiggled free. Brother clattered—*clack, clack*—and both parents trilled back. She opened her beak. Just a wet little 'peep.' The moss swallowed it whole.
She chirped at the hollow. And chirped. And chirped once more. Nothing came back. She nudged a soft green leaf with her beak and whispered, 'Sing with me?'
The leaf rustled—'shhh, shhh'—then tumbled off the branch. It landed upside-down on a lower twig with a tiny *flick*, and Warble tilted her head.
Warble turned to her mother, who was preening a loose feather. She opened her beak wide and said one true word: 'Mama.' The wind stopped.
A blueberry dropped from the oak above—*plip*—straight onto her father's head. Both parents froze, feathers ruffled, looking down. She watched from the mossy hollow.
Every bird, every squirrel, every frog held still. Warble sang one small, crooked note. It bounced off the moss. Brother copied it. Father tapped his beak twice.
The chatter came back in, and there it was—Warble's little wobble, stitched right in between. She hopped to the branch's edge, beak open, then tucked back into the mossy hollow. Ready for the next word.