The Morning Concert

Every morning, just before the sun peeked over the hills, the forest prepared for its concert.

The wind woke first, brushing the highest leaves and making a light rustle, like a curtain slowly opening.

“It’s my turn,” the wind whispered, sliding between the branches.

Then came the stream, flowing over the smooth stones of its bed, adding a clear, steady murmur beneath the rustling leaves.

“Here’s my rhythm,” gurgled the stream, “always the same, always different.”

One by one, the birds opened their eyes among the branches and began singing their melodies: a sharp whistle here, a light trill there, each with its own voice, no two alike.

“Let’s add the happiest notes,” chirped a little robin, puffing out its red chest toward the brightening sky.

The bees joined the concert too, their low, steady hum accompanying everything like a carpet of sound, while the first dewdrops slid off the leaves with an almost imperceptible tinkle.

No one had written that music. No one conducted the concert. And yet every sound found its place beside the others, as if the whole forest knew exactly when and how to join the chorus.

A little fox, lying in the shade of a fern, opened one lazy eye every morning at exactly that moment, listening quietly without ever disturbing anyone.

“It’s the most beautiful concert I know,” it thought every time, “and it costs nothing, if only you stop to listen.”

When the sun finally rose above the hills, lighting up every leaf and every drop of dew, the concert slowly faded, making room for the sounds of the day.

But the next morning, at the same hour, the forest would start it all over again — because some melodies, the true ones, never really end: they repeat, every day, for whoever knows how to stop and listen.