That night, for the first time, Kiko’s fiddle sang in harmony with Ooma’s throat. The grasshopper’s speed found a foundation in the frog’s depth. The frog’s age found new breath in the grasshopper’s fire.

Kiko’s antennae twitched. He knew he could not match that sorrow. So he did something unexpected. He laid down his fiddle.

Ooma went first. He swelled his throat to a luminous pearl and let out a single note— Ooooooohm —that vibrated through the soil, up the grass blades, and into the very bones of every listener. Ants stopped mid-march. Caterpillars wept. It was the sound of the earth turning toward spring.

From that day on, whenever you hear a frog’s low oom in a marsh and a grasshopper’s bright zik in the field, listen closely. They are not competing.

She gave one half of the orchid to Ooma, one half to Kiko.

No winner was declared. The Hummingbird hovered, blinking. "One more round," she chirped.

In the sun-drenched meadow of Teloria, two music-makers ruled the summer. One was Kiko, a young grasshopper with legs like coiled springs and a fiddle made from a hollow twig. The other was Ooma, an ancient tree frog with skin like mossy velvet and a voice that could bend dewdrops into song.