Fenn and the Gate Whisper — Behind the red barn, Fenn heard a tiny ting-ting-ting, like a spoon tapping a teacup. He left his warm straw nest and waddled toward the gate, because secrets never wait politely. Read the full story →
Behind the red barn, Fenn heard a tiny ting-ting-ting, like a spoon tapping a teacup. He left his warm straw nest and waddled toward the gate, because secrets never wait politely. The puddle was cold on his webbed feet—splish, shiver, splish—but the sound came again from the fence flowers. “Who’s there?” Fenn whispered, though he hoped the answer would be wonderfully strange.
A cricket popped out from behind a daisy stem, rubbing one leg like a fiddle bow. “Not so loud,” she chirped. “I’m tuning the gate for moonrise.” Fenn had never heard of a gate needing music, so he stood very still while the cricket played the little latch-song. Ting-ting-ting! The barn door hummed back. Fenn carried the song home under his beak, and if you spot him by the puddle, maybe he is still keeping that tiny ting-ting-ting.