Sylvester the Stork

The tallest bird I had ever seen lived in the field behind our house.

At least...

I thought he lived there.

Every morning, he stood on top of the old chimney across the road.

Every afternoon...

There he was.

Every evening...

Still there.

One leg.

Sometimes two.

But mostly one.

Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore.

"I have to meet him."

Marie, my sister, looked up from digging what was clearly a very important hole.

"The bird?"

"Yes."

"The giant bird?"

"Yes."

"The one who never says anything?"

"Exactly!"

Olivia, my other sister, tilted her head.

"What are you going to talk about?"

"I don't know yet."

That seemed like a perfectly good reason to go.

So I went.

When I reached the chimney, the stork was exactly where I expected him to be.

Standing.

Watching.

Not moving.

I trotted up, tail wagging, and barked cheerfully.

"Hello!"

The stork blinked.

"My name is BoBo."

Another blink.

"I've seen you here every day."

Silence.

"I like your legs."

Nothing.

"They're much longer than mine."

The stork slowly looked down at his legs.

Then back at me.

I wasn't entirely sure if that meant thank you.

"So..."

I sat down.

"...do you ever get lonely up there?"

The stork blinked again.

A gentle breeze moved through his feathers.

The field whispered around us.

Still, nothing.

I waited.

After all, it seemed only polite.

Minutes passed.

A butterfly landed on my nose.

I sneezed.

The butterfly looked offended and flew away.

The stork didn't move.

"You don't say very much, do you?" I asked.

For the first time, he spoke.

"No."

His voice was soft.

So soft, it seemed almost to disappear into the wind.

"Oh!"

I wagged my tail so hard I nearly fell over.

"I knew you could talk!"

The stork gave the tiniest smile.

"I simply don't need many words."

I thought about that.

"I use lots of words."

"I noticed."

"I like words."

"They're lovely."

"So why don't you use them?"

Sylvester turned his long neck towards the horizon, where the sea met the sky.

"Because..."

He paused, so long that I wondered if he had forgotten the question.

Then, very quietly, he said,

"...the wind is already saying quite a lot."

I stopped.

And listened.

The leaves rustled softly.

Crickets had begun their evening song.

Somewhere in the distance, a tractor hummed gently through the valley.

And high above us, swallows darted across the fading blue.

I had heard those sounds every day.

But I wasn't sure I had ever really listened.

"I think..."

I whispered.

"...I've been talking over them."

Sylvester nodded.

Not because I was wrong.

But because I had discovered it for myself.

So we sat together.

Without speaking.

Five minutes.

Maybe ten.

Perhaps longer.

It didn't matter.

For once, I didn't feel the need to fill the silence.

And somehow, it became the quietest conversation I had ever had.

When I finally stood up to leave, I smiled.

"Thank you."

The old stork tilted his head.

"But..."

I laughed.

"...you hardly said anything."

His eyes twinkled.

"You heard enough."

I trotted home beneath the evening sky.

Marie was still in the garden, digging her very important hole.

She looked up as I approached.

"So?"

Olivia appeared beside her.

"What did he say?"

I glanced back towards the chimney.

Sylvester was standing on one leg again.

Exactly as before.

But somehow, everything looked a little different.

I smiled.

"Not very much."

Olivia frowned.

"Then why are you smiling?"

I looked up at the sky.

At the swallows.

In the soft evening light.

And I thought about the wind.

"Because..."

I paused.

"...sometimes silence says the most."

Paws for now...

BoBo 🐾