Whirlysticks was a new bunny in the warren that spring. He earned his moniker through forgetting to eat, which made him thin, and through twitching his ears every second or so to follow bird songs, which made him forget to eat. For a skinny bunny with his ears all a-go, the name wasn't badly found. The other rabbits didn't trouble themselves much about Whirlysticks, mainly thumping him for being so odd whenever he came near enough. That was bearable, all told, because Whirlysticks was far more interested in being a bird than in anything else. Not that the birds would have anything to do with the ridiculous, land-bound creature who hopped daily in their midst. He received pecks, whistles and caws for his pains; but nothing could deter his fascination with mordent trills, melodic warbles and staccato chirps.

Alas, poor Whirlysticks. As summer ended, the great avian migrations began. He grew desperate when the nights lengthened and each dawn showed the silhouettes of southerly flocks. Their calls grew faint as they soared over the forest. The rabbit set off to follow on his own. The going was difficult; food was scarce; but worse was his panic at the thought of losing his way when the winged travellers became rare overhead. Finally came a day when none of the creatures passed. The lone rabbit lay in misery where he woke. At the day's end, when he hadn't the courage to lift his chin from his paws, an awareness of a vast, low rumble crept in upon him, so like the sound of wind over his warren that he hadn't noticed it before.

With his long ears for antennae, he moved in the darkness toward the faint roaring. By daybreak he could hear short shrieks and see fast streaks in the sky. These were birds he had never seen nor heard, swift gulls skimming the boom of the sea. It was all so strange that he sat motionless on a sandy bluff by the waves; and he immobility saved him from the long shadow that flashed over once before sending him in a scramble beneath the rocks. A terrible scream sounded like none he knew. Huge talons sheared his back. He dug further in, and looking behind saw a cold, yellow eye above the thick, hooked beak of a sea eagle. It could not reach him through the cracks between the rocks.

Even the predator’s attack didn’t stop Whirlysticks going on his way that night. The tiny traveller merely kept far from the din of the shore. Mountains soon reared, wherein the foxes stalked him by sun and by moon. He soothed himself with the noises of the weather, of gusts between the peaks, and the soft chirm of a few winter birds. He ate roots in the holes where he hid. At last he moved beyond the hills to a flat, empty land. There was no snow, only the rustle of pebbles, and sometimes the dry slipping of serpents that kept him running for his life. Most of the time there was no sound at all. He stayed in the desert, scuttling like a scorpion, because he had nowhere else to search, no hope left of finding the music for which he had lived and without which he soon would die.

The snapping of winter’s back saved him in the end, not with warmth or food, but with the first sight of a flock headed north on the wing. He retraced his path through the mountain melts, and in high summer found again the warren he had abandoned. From then on his presence was yet more strange to the others; but he was no longer an outcast. Whirlysticks had become a mysterious source, a fountain of faraway places and things. His return had brought serenity even to himself, now that the beauty of birdsong had become less painful, a voice in a wider, immanent chorus.

fin.

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