Noisy Wren’s Adventures

Chapter 3 - Noisy Arrives At Cousin Chirps in West Covina

So there I was, wings buzzing like a dragonfly on a sugar rush, soaring over the last stretch of desert toward West Covina, California. The hawk chase and that sneaky coyote at the rest stop had my feathers in a twist, but I was still kickin’, my satchel lighter but my spirits sky-high. The desert gave way to green patches, houses, and those funny human roads that twist like worms after rain. I spotted West Covina’s sprawl—trees, lawns, and plenty of rooftops perfect for a quick cat-poop game. “Almost there, Noisy,” I chirped to myself. “Cousin Chirp’s gonna flip when she sees me!”

I hadn’t seen Chirp since I was a fledgling, all wobbly wings and big dreams, back when we’d hide under bushes and giggle about squirrels stealing our seeds. That was years ago—House Wrens grow up fast, ya know, and I’d been too busy dodging hawks and perfecting my song to visit. But now? I was here, and the Songfest in Riverside was just a hop away. I scanned the neighborhood, looking for Chirp’s favorite haunt—a big sycamore tree near a human’s backyard fountain. Sure enough, I heard her before I saw her, her chirps sharp and sassy, like she was telling the whole world who’s boss. “Chirp!” I squawked, diving toward the tree. “Your VIP has landed!”

Chirp spun around mid-chirp, her tiny wren eyes wide as acorns. “Noisy Wren? Is that you, you loudmouthed featherball?” She zoomed over, tackling me in a flurry of wings and laughter. We tumbled onto a branch, giggling like fledglings again. “You’re taller—well, maybe not, but you’re louder!” she teased, fluffing her brown feathers. “I thought you’d never leave Texas! What’s this about the Songfest? You, a House Wren, taking on the big birds?” I grinned, puffing my chest. “Yup! Got one song, Chirp, and it’s gonna wake every bear from here to Nevada. Just you wait!”

We spent the next few days catching up, and let me tell you, it was like no time had passed. Chirp’s nest was a cozy spot in the sycamore, stuffed with twigs and bits of human string she’d “borrowed.” We raided the backyard fountain for splashes—wrens love a good bath, did you know that?—and played cat-poop with the neighbor’s tabby, who was not amused when I nailed him right on the tail. “Still got it!” I crowed, dodging his swat. Chirp dragged me to her favorite seed spots—human feeders overflowing with millet—and we stuffed ourselves silly, swapping stories about our adventures. She told me about the time she outsmarted a crow who tried to steal her nest, and I spilled about my hawk dive and coyote trick. “Noisy, you’re crazier than a roadrunner in a windstorm!” she laughed. I just grinned. “Takes one to know one, Chirp.”

By day three, I was itching to practice for the Songfest. My song was good—loud, punchy, with a trill that could rattle windows—but I needed to nail it. Chirp caught me humming and tilted her head. “Alright, superstar, let’s get that song ready. I’m callin’ the crew.” Before I could ask, she let out a piercing chirp, and three more wrens swooped in—her pals, a scrappy band of musical House Wrens who called themselves the “Chatter Chords.” There was Squeak, a wiry guy with a voice like a piccolo; Trill, a speedy gal who could hit notes higher than a hawk’s scream; and Bop, a chubby wren who added bass like nobody’s business. “Meet the band,” Chirp said, smirking. “They’ve played every backyard bash from here to Pasadena. Let’s see what you’ve got, Noisy.”

We perched on a low branch, the evening sun turning the sycamore leaves all golden. I was nervous—me, Noisy Wren, nervous! But Chirp gave me a nod, and the Chatter Chords started a soft rhythm, bobbing their heads like they were born for this. I took a deep breath and let my song rip—a big, brassy burst of chirps and trills, weaving up and down like a rollercoaster. It wasn’t fancy like a mockingbird’s, but it was mine, loud enough to make the human next door drop his rake. “Whoa!” Squeak whistled. “That’s got some lungs!” Trill hopped closer. “Needs a little finesse, though. Try softening the second trill.” Bop chimed in, “And add a pause before the big finish—makes ‘em lean in.” Chirp, grinning like a proud mama, coached me through it. “You’re tellin’ a story, Noisy. Make ‘em feel your journey—Texas, hawks, coyotes, all of it.”

We practiced for hours, the Chatter Chords layering their chirps under mine, turning my solo into something epic. Squeak’s piccolo notes danced around my melody, Trill’s high trills added sparkle, and Bop’s bass gave it weight, like a storm rolling in. By the end, I was belting it so loud the tabby ran under the porch, and a couple of sparrows stopped by to clap their wings. “That’s it!” Chirp crowed. “Noisy, you’re gonna blow those Songfest birds away!” I was buzzing, my heart racing faster than when I dodged that coyote. “You think? I mean, I know I’m loud, but what if they laugh? I’m just a House Wren!” Chirp pecked my wing. “You’re Noisy Wren, legend in the making. Own it.”

Then Trill piped up, “Hey, Noisy, we’re comin’ with you to the Songfest. Gotta see this!” Squeak nodded. “Yeah, we’ll be your backup singers—Chatter Chords style!” Bop chuckled. “And I wanna see those Riverside birds’ faces when you hit that big note.” Chirp grinned. “No way we’re missin’ this. You cool with us taggin’ along?” My beak dropped. “Cool? Are you kidding? I’d love it! You guys are my crew now!” I was so excited I nearly fell off the branch. With Chirp and the Chatter Chords by my side, the Songfest wasn’t just a dream—it was gonna be a party. “Riverside, here we come!” I chirped, and we all laughed, our voices echoing over West Covina like a preview of the show to come.