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Treebeard reached out and, with one twig-like finger, caught a young bird out of the air that had misjudged its first flight a bit. It perched there, singing a song of gratitude, while its parents chirped their anxiety and relief. As Treebird waited patiently, the shaken bird recovered its nerve and took off again, this time more successfully.
Ah, said Treebeard softly, I remember: so many springs, so many birds, so many living creatures.
Willow warblers in Tasarinan. Pine martens in Dorthonion. And the long-lost nightingales of Neldoreth.
This spring’s birds were not lesser, no, but neither would he forget.