It was five o’clock in the morning, the hour of the Great Silence. Silas lay tucked under his heavy quilt, dreaming of quiet clouds and soft whispers. He didn’t know that the morning breeze was actually a tour bus for the trendiest band in the trees, and they were about to pull into his station. On the wooden ledge of the bedroom window, a small bird with a black cap and a white cheek landed with a flourish. This was Zazz, the most famous trumpeter in the backyard. He polished his beak against the wood and adjusted his feathers as if he were putting on a tuxedo.
Right behind him hopped Pluck, carrying a bass made from a curved willow twig and a single strand of hightension spider silk. He thumped the wood of the window frame with his wing, checking the acoustics. “This house has a great echo,” he chirped, sensing the hollow space ofthe bedroom beyond the glass. HONK-A-DEE-DEE! The sound ripped through Silas’s dream like a zipper. He bolted upright, his hair standing on end like a startled hedgehog. Right there, inches from his nose on the other side of the glass, Zazz was warming up his vocal cords with a series of sharp, brassy notes.
Zazz didn’t just sing; he performed. He puffed out his chest until he looked like a fuzzy tennis ball and threw his head back, letting out a syncopated rhythm that would make a metronome dizzy. “Chick-a-DEE! Chick-a-doo-WOP! Bee-BAA-dee!” he belted out, ignoring the sleepy human. Not to be outdone, Pluck began to thrum against the glass. He used his beak to pluck the spider-silk string, creating a vibration that rattled Silas’s glass of water on the nightstand. It was a deep, groovy beat that made the very foundations of the house feel like they were dancing to a bird-brained bebop.
Silas threw open the window, ready to give the performers a piece of his mind. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” he shouted, waving his arms. But the cool morning air only seemed to give the band a better stage, and the breeze carried their melody further into the room. Zazz stopped mid-note and tilted his head, looking Silas right in the eye. He didn’t look scared; he looked expectant.
He hopped onto the edge of Silas’s finger and held out a tiny, hollowed-out acorn cap. It wasn’t a protest he wanted it was the cover charge.
The sun finally began to peek over the horizon, painting the room in gold. Silas sat on his bedside stool, sipping a hot cup of tea and tapping his feet. The Jazz Chickadees played on, the best morning show in town-and honestly, it was worth every single seed.