He made ring after ring after ring. He slipped the first onto his first green friend — gently, gently — and one onto the next, and the next, until half the flock wore his two words on their feet.

He couldn't send them anywhere. Birds aren't letters. They fly where birds fly.

But birds fly far. And wherever birds go, there are islands. And on islands, there are people. And people notice strange little things.

And people talk.

"Go on," Wind whispered. "Just be birds."