Four Towers at Sunrise

The four crayon towers of Beaver Lodge caught the morning light like something out of a dream — one red, one yellow, one green, and one orange, each one taller than three pine trees stacked end to end. They rose straight up from the center of Craft Room Forest, where the trees grew in purples and teals and colors that had no real names.

Ms. Crayon Beaver stood on the lodge's wide deck, both paws wrapped around a mug of hot acorn tea, watching a family of deer cross the meadow below. They wore little wool scarves and carried leaf-woven satchels. Normal Tuesday morning stuff.

"You're staring again," said a voice behind her.

She turned. Pip, a young gecko in a yellow raincoat, was sweeping the deck with a twig broom.

"I'm thinking," she corrected him.

"Same face," he said, without looking up.

She smiled into her mug. Somewhere deep in the forest, a bird sang once — and then, very suddenly, stopped.

What the Parrot Said

The bird had stopped singing.

Ms. Crayon Beaver set her mug down and leaned over the deck railing. The meadow below looked normal — the deer family was gone, the grass still green — but the purple trees at the forest's edge looked different. Paler. Like someone had left them out in the sun too long.

"Pip," she said carefully.

The small gecko looked up from his sweeping, his yellow raincoat rustling. He followed her gaze and went very still.

Before either of them could speak, something shot out of the tree line — a parrot. Not a little one. A big, gray-feathered bird the size of a backpack, wearing a tiny red vest and talking so fast it was hard to catch the words.

"Gone! Gone-gone-gone! The teal grove — went gray — all of it — before breakfast!"

He crash-landed on the railing and grabbed Ms. Crayon Beaver's arm with both feet.

"The old shoemaker too — Mr. Hobb — his whole shop — gray walls, gray thread, gray everything. He says it's spreading."

Ms. Crayon Beaver looked back at the pale trees.

They were definitely paler than a minute ago.