Dottle’s Barkside Broadcast — Under the oak’s scratchy ridges, Dottle pressed one foot to the bark and hummed, “Zzzreep? Read the full story →
Under the oak’s scratchy ridges, Dottle pressed one foot to the bark and hummed, “Zzzreep? Zzzreep?” He wanted a brand-new sound for the afternoon broadcast, not the usual twig-tap, leaf-flap, squirrel-sneeze weather report. Warm sap smelled like brown sugar, and the big leaves above him clapped softly in the breeze. Dottle tried a buzz that wobbled like jelly. He tried a buzz that sounded like a spoon in a tin cup. Each one tickled his own legs until he snorted.
The oak answered with a tiny muffled giggle. Dottle froze, antennae crooked. Nobody lived inside this particular wrinkle of bark—at least, nobody had signed his listener sheet. He leaned closer and buzzed, “Who’s in there?” A little voice squeaked, “Keep going!” Then another said, “Do the spoon one!” From a narrow seam came six dust-colored bark lice, wearing flecks of bark like hats and taking notes on a crumb of old leaf.
They had been running the Secret Review of Tree Noises for weeks, hidden where no bird, beetle, or boastful cicada thought to look. Dottle performed three encore buzzes and one accidental hiccup, which won Best Thunder in a Tiny Body. By sunset, the oak carried his broadcast and their giggles together; next time you see those deep bark grooves, dare yourself to find the front row under the oak’s scratchy ridges.
