Forest choir

⏱ ~5 min reading

At the edge of the forest, where an old oak tree stretched its branches to the morning sky, the air was special. It smelled of wet moss, bark, warm resin, and a little bit of ripe raspberries from the bushes. The fog grazed low over the grass, like a white flock. The first rays of the sun were just falling on the tops of the birches - and the forest was waking up.

And along with the forest, the birds woke up.

The woodpecker sat on an old pine tree. The woodpecker on an oak tree. The tit on a flexible hazel tree. The nightingale in a thick rosehip bush, where it was quiet and cozy. And the little bunting on a low branch of an elderberry, at the edge, because it was afraid to be in sight.

One day, a woodpecker gathered them all together.

"Little sisters and brothers," he said matter-of-factly, tapping his claw on the bark. "I've come up with an idea. Let's start a forest choir. Let the forest be filled not just with singing, but with music. Let every animal wake up and smile.".

The birds were delighted. Of course, we will! It's so nice to sing together. They agreed to meet the next morning, as soon as the sun came out.

But the next morning something happened.

Zozulya flew in first. She sat on a branch and shouted loudly:

- Koo-koo! Koo-koo! Koo-koo!

The woodpecker had just opened his beak to make a beat when the titmouse chirped:

— Chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp!

And then a nightingale burst out of the rosehip bushes - with a long, iridescent melody, as if a stream had run down from a mountain:

— Tch-tch-tch, fit-fit-fit, trrrrr-tsok!

The woodpecker got nervous and tapped on the oak tree:

— Knock-knock-knock-knock!

And the little bunting sat on the elderberry and was silent. Just silent. Her beak was closed, her eyes were big. She wanted to sing, but she was afraid - her voice was so thin, so quiet, that it would be lost in this hubbub.

It turned out to be unwise.

"Stop! Stop-stop-stop!" the woodpecker flapped its wings. "This is not a choir. This is a bazaar at dawn.".

The birds fell silent. Zozulya pouted. The tit frowned. The nightingale timidly preened its feathers. The lark almost hid behind a leaf.

"That's not right," said the woodpecker gently. "Everyone listens only to themselves. And music is when you listen to someone else. Let's try something different.".

He thought for a moment. Then he began:

— Zozulka, your "cuckoo" will be our heart. Like a clock. Four beats — one, two, three, four. Do you understand?

"Ku-ku," the bird nodded.

"I'll knock the rhythm. Not loudly. Quietly, quietly, like an old clock in grandma's house.".

The woodpecker knocked lightly: knock-knock, knock-knock.

"Little bird, you are a melody. Your chirp is like a thread that ties everything together. Thin, transparent.".

"Tweet," the tit sang in agreement, "good.".

"Nightingale," the woodpecker returned, "and you are the soloist. The most important place. We will all create a background for you, and you will sing from above. Like a star above the forest.".

The nightingale blushed, his reddish beak was so beautiful in the sunlight.

"And I," whispered the oatmeal from somewhere behind the leaf, "and I... can I sing along?"

The woodpecker looked at her carefully. Kindly.

— And you, little one, are the most important. You sing along. Without you, the choir would be dry. Your voice is like dewdrops on a spider's web. Thin, but without them, morning is not morning.

Oatmeal took a quiet breath. Something warm inside her warmed up. And she said:

— I'll try.

The woodpecker raised its claw like a conductor's baton.

— One. Two. Three. Four.

And it began.

Zozulya sang her «cuckoo, cuckoo» — even, measured, like a heart. The woodpecker quietly tapped the rhythm on the oak. The tit weaved a thin melody in between — chirp, chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp. And from above, from the rosehip bush, a nightingale poured down — in iridescences, like a stream, like a silvery little flock rolling on the moss.

And in the midst of all this — most quietly, but evenly — the bunting picked up. Its voice turned out to be transparent, like a drop of dew: "zing-zing-zing." Thin, but one that would really be missing without it.

The forest froze.

A bunny jumping among the ferns stopped in mid-jump. A baby fox carrying a twig to its mother sat down and twitched its ears. An old badger, going to his hole to sleep after a night's wanderings, stopped in the middle of the path. Even the fog stopped him from crawling. He listened.

When the birds fell silent, the last echo echoed in the forest for a long time. And then the bunny clapped its front paws. Behind it was a fox. Behind it was a badger. All the animals squeaked, croaked, and shouted something of their own—applause in the forest style.

"How beautiful," hooted the old owl from behind the oak tree. "I've never heard anything like it.".

The woodpecker turned back to the birds. His eyes were shining.

— You see, my dears. Everyone in their place. Everyone with their own voice. And no one is superfluous. Even the quietest one is needed.

The Oatmeal smiled very, very much. She understood: someone also needed her "zing-zing". And the most important people - her friends.

From that morning on, the forest choir gathered every day. Even before sunrise, as soon as the mist began to lift from the moss, the birds were already sitting on their branches. The woodpecker tapped out a beat softly, the cuckoo counted, the tit spun a melody, the nightingale sang from above, and the bunting sang along tenderly.

And if you ever go into the forest early in the morning, stand silently under an old oak tree and listen, you will hear this choir. It has not disappeared. It is still singing.

You just have to be attentive. And quiet. And listen — as that woodpecker taught you. Because beauty is born precisely where different voices listen to each other.