At the end of winter-between the roots of the tall beeches, in the heart of the deepest forests-a small bird emerges with his dazzling blue feathers,
as blue as the summer sky.
He pulls himself out of the humus where the egg was buried, which his mother had delicately placed at the very beginning of the previous autumn. He then covers it with a thick layer of rich brown earth, which is also light and fragrant, to shelter it from the extreme cold that reigns during the darkest days of the year.
In a hurry to be born to see the sky, he listens for the noise
made by the sap in the roots of his homely tree hole.
Coming up from the lowest point where it has just
spent the winter, the sap slowly climbs into the wood vessels, making a discreet continuous fizz. Sometimes, the crackles of the first snowdrops-which are breaking through the frozen crust-invite the bird
to come out of the egg.