Waldemar the Raccoon and Mr. Beakfinch

More about Waldemar the Raccoon and Mr. Beakfinch

The forest began to hum. Not loudly, not intrusively—more like a thought you'd almost forgotten that then returns. It wasn't the wind or an animal that sounded, but something interpersonal—or inter-tree, if you will. I followed the humming. It rose from the ground, dripped from the leaves, and crept between the branches like an invisible melody. My red hat trembled ever so slightly, as if it, too, wanted to listen. The path led me into a small depression where the fog clung to the ground like cotton wool. There, on a stone, stood a bird. No ordinary bird—it wore tiny, round-rimmed glasses and had plumage reminiscent of faded music: beige with traces of ink, dots like rests. In its right wing, it held a baton. No—upon closer inspection, it was a stalk with a drop hanging from the end. A single dewdrop, round and clear like a note of water. The bird raised its baton. And everything fell silent. Then it lowered it. A breeze blew through the grass. A beetle clicked. Two leaves softly tapped together. I held my breath. This was no accident. This was music. "You there!" called the bird without turning around. "What is your instrument?" I was taken aback. "I'm Waldemar. I... travel." "No excuse. Everything sounds. You too." He turned and studied me through his glasses. His eyes sparkled like tiny metronomes. "You wear boots," he said. "Yes." "Then you're percussion." I wanted to object, but he was already raising his baton. The drop swung in the morning light. "Inhale! And... step! Step! Step!" Without thinking, I placed my paws in time. The moss crunched, a branch cracked, somewhere a seed fell to the ground. And the bird nodded contentedly. "Not bad. You're playing cleanly." "What is this?" I asked. "An orchestra," he said. "A forest orchestra. But no one ever hears us. And yet we're here." I looked around. Indeed, the silence wasn't empty. It was full of voices. A root stretched like a string. A drop vibrated on a leaf. The sounds of the world weren't layered on top of each other—they were part of the same whole. "My name is Beakfinch," said the bird. "And this is my baton. A drop that holds time until it falls." "And what happens when it falls?" He looked sadly at the drop. "Then the piece ends. And everything begins again." I sat down on a fallen tree trunk. "May I stay until it falls?" He nodded. "Only if you don't speak." So I remained silent. I remained silent and listened. And in my silence, I became part of it. Part of the invisible, the small thing that no one names, but everyone feels. And at some point—very quietly—the drop fell. Mr. Schnabelfinch bowed. I did too. Then I swung my backpack over my shoulder, lifted my red hat, and continued on—with the sounds of the forest in my feet. I hadn't learned much in that hour. But enough to know: Some friends speak only in sound. And some moments are music, even if no one writes it down.