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 Noisy Wren, is a pint-sized bird with a loud mouth and a fearless heart. |
| So there I was, perched on the edge of a cushy seat in this shiny, chrome-plated beast of a luxury Class A Motor Coach, my blue Songfest ribbon pinned to my satchel like a badge of honor. West Covina’s morning sun glinted off the bus’s windows, and Cousin Chirp and the Chatter Chords—Squeak, Trill, and Bop—were waving their wings like I was some kind of rock star. “Sing loud in Texas, Noisy!” Chirp hollered, her voice cracking with pride. “Show ‘em how a King of Birds does it!” I grinned, puffing my feathers. “You bet, Chirp! I’ll be back to jam with you soon!” King of Birds, huh? Bet you didn’t know us wrens earned that title ages ago in Europe, when a sneaky wren—probably my great-great-grandpappy—hitched a ride on an eagle’s back and flew higher than anybody to claim the crown. That’s right, we’re small but mighty, and I was feeling every bit the king as the bus rumbled to life. Inside, this Motor Coach was like a palace on wheels—plush seats, shiny floors, and a snack bar piled with seeds, grubs, and even some fancy human crackers. I wasn’t alone, either. The bus was a regular zoo, and I mean that in the best way. There was a chatty squirrel named Nutmeg, stashing peanuts under her seat; a pair of sociable mourning doves, cooing love songs to each other; and a chill armadillo named Rollo, who kept rolling into a ball every time the bus hit a bump. “First time on a fancy ride?” I chirped, hopping onto the armrest next to Nutmeg. She flicked her tail. “Yup, won a nut-hoarding contest in Nevada. You?” I flashed my ribbon. “Songfest champ, baby! Noisy Wren, King of Birds!” Rollo unrolled and squinted. “King of Birds? Thought that was eagles.” I laughed. “Naw, us wrens stole that title fair and square—rode an eagle’s back to the sky and outsmarted him. Old story, but I’m livin’ proof!” The humans running the show were something else. They were Songfest sponsors, all smiles and funny hats, and get this—they could talk to us like we were old pals. Like that Dr. Dolittle guy from the human stories! The driver, a lady named Clara with a braid longer than a hawk’s wingspan, leaned over and said, “Noisy, you comfy up there? Got any song requests for the road?” My beak dropped. “You talk bird? Whoa, that’s wild! How ‘bout you play my Songfest tune?” I started chirping my song—“I’m Noisy Wren, hear me sing, loud and bold”—and Clara laughed, her voice warm as a summer breeze. “That’s a hit! Let’s keep it lively, folks!” She chatted with Nutmeg about acorn recipes, cooed with the doves about their nest plans, and even got Rollo to relax with a joke about armadillo armor. This was gonna be one fun ride. The trip to Texas was a blast. We rolled through deserts and hills, the bus humming along while Clara and her co-sponsor, a guy named Ben, kept us entertained. Ben tossed out seeds like confetti, and I swapped stories with the crew—my hawk dive, the coyote trick, and my big Songfest win. Nutmeg bragged about out-hoarding a chipmunk, and the doves kept interrupting with mushy stuff like, “Oh, darling, your coo is sweeter than Noisy’s song!” I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stop grinning. At one stop, Clara let us stretch our wings, and I led a quick cat-poop game with a stray at a gas station—nailed him right on the ear, and the whole bus cheered. Rollo tried to join but rolled into a ditch instead. “Stick to armor, pal,” I chirped, helping him out. By the time we hit Texas, I was buzzing with excitement. Clara called out, “Noisy, your stop’s next! Ready to be a hometown hero?” I puffed my chest. “Born ready! They’re gonna lose their feathers when they see me!” The bus pulled into my old stomping grounds, a big oak two blocks from the square where I’d started my journey. I hopped to the window, and—holy seeds—what a sight! A flock of birds bigger than a storm cloud was waiting: my parents, my siblings, every wren in the neighborhood, plus sparrows, finches, and even a couple of crows who usually don’t give me the time of day. Banners made of twigs and leaves spelled out “NOISY WREN: KING OF BIRDS!” and a pile of seeds and grubs was stacked like a throne. I stepped off the bus, blue ribbon glinting, and the crowd went wild, wings flapping, beaks squawking, like I’d just invented flying. “Noisy!” my mom chirped, tackling me in a hug. “You did it! First place!” My dad, usually the “pipe down” type, puffed up proud. “That’s my boy—King of Birds, just like the old wren who fooled the eagle!” My sister, Tweet, smirked. “Still talk too much, though.” I laughed. “Gotta talk to tell the story, Tweet!” The party was epic—birds everywhere, singing my song, pecking at the seed pile, and playing cat-poop with a grumpy tomcat who didn’t stand a chance. A sparrow band struck up a tune, and I hopped on a stump to belt out my Songfest hit: “I’m Noisy Wren, hear me sing, loud and bold!” The whole flock joined in, even the crows, who added a gravelly harmony that wasn’t half bad. Clara and Ben stayed for the party, chatting with birds like it was no big deal. Clara told my mom about my bus antics, and Ben tossed grubs to the fledglings, who thought he was the coolest human ever. A cardinal who’d heard about my win flew in to congratulate me, saying, “Noisy, that trill of yours haunts my dreams!” I grinned. “Just wait’ll next year, pal!” As the sun set, we all perched in the big oak, swapping stories. I told ‘em about Chirp, the Chatter Chords, the hawks, the coyote, and the Motor Coach zoo. My family couldn’t stop laughing when I got to the part about pooping on the gas station cat. “That’s our Noisy,” Dad said, shaking his head. As the party wound down, I looked at my blue ribbon and thought about that wren from the old story, outsmarting the eagle to become King of Birds. I’d dodged predators, sung my heart out, and come home a champ. “Texas,” I chirped, “your King’s back, and I ain’t shuttin’ up anytime soon!” |
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