pretty bird.

A bird sat on a wire. 

Another sat beside it. 

“Hello.” said the second bird. 

The first bird had no reply.

“Hello,” said the second bird louder than before.

The first bird flew off.

She sat on a branch.

The second bird sat on the branch beside her.

“Why don’t you speak, pretty bird?” the second bird had asked the first. 

“You must have many stories to tell.”

The first bird looked at the leaves that had fallen on the branch on which they were perched. 

“Pretty bird, tell me this,” began the second bird. “Have you ever tried to speak.”

He stretched out his wings and flew in the summer wind that surrounded them both. 

“Have you ever told but a soul of your stories? Of your passings? Have you ever sang along with the flowers or with the trout that swim in the river?”

The first bird look bewildered.

But still was silent.

  “Speak to me, pretty bird. Tell me your troubles.” 

The first bird nodded her head in disagreement and just when she had thought that the second bird had  given up, she had head him sing.

The meadow was filled with music; the trees danced with the tune of the single bird’s melody. 

  “Now sing with me, pretty bird. 

    Let your voice be heard.”