It falls out of the tree one day - a little pink blob with a furry cap, two grey sacs for eyes, dandelion puffs speckled here and there like tiny wishes and a yellow-rimmed mouth open wide with a red-desperate hunger. It falls into a pile of leaves and writhes there, wriggles in the leaves, its neck extending here and there perceiving the song but not receiving its promise. It lies there and your only thought is a question. How can something so helpless be so ugly? If you left, it would continue its fruitless search until it tired and sunk into a final cold sleep. Then it would rot in the stomach of the earth or another creature, never to feel the summer air upon its wings or sing its own siren song.

A movement - a sudden lurch, the smell of mulch hitting the nose suddenly.

Turning back, you cradle its body in your hands, breathe warm air into the gap between your thumbs. It’s still in your hands, your soft whispering like the wind filtering through forest leaves in the evening.

Fin.

Support often comes when you least expect it.