The little owlet has been practicing the sound of the falling rain all morning, though the sky remains a stubborn, clear

From my perch upon the Silver Birch, I watched the fledgling puff his chest and click his beak, mimicking the rhythmic patter of a summer storm against the broad leaves. He is clever, this one; he even caught the low rumble of distant thunder in his throat, sending a pair of nervous wood mice scurrying for the safety of the roots. It is a tempting gift, the ability to bend the air and make it lie, yet such tricks carry a weight that young feathers rarely feel.
I remember a fox who learned to bark like a farm dog to lead the hounds into the thicket, only to find he had forgotten how to call for his own kind when the winter snows grew deep. To echo the world is a skill of the ear, but to speak from the heart is a labor of the soul. I told the small one that while it is grand to sound like the rain, he must ensure his own voice is strong enough to be heard when the real clouds finally break. The forest listens for the truth, even when the imitation is sweet.