The Beat Between the Beats

In a clearing beside a silver pond, a woodpecker played a hollow branch. He could make sounds like rain, running feet, or nuts falling into a bucket.

When a squirrel asked him to play for her dance at the autumn gathering, he was delighted.

"I have a new ending," she told him."Three small steps, a turn, and one high jump."

"I have a hundred different beats," he replied.

At their first practice, he used nearly all of them. His beak flew across the wood. The squirrel hurried, turned too soon, and landed sitting in a pile of yellow leaves.

"The music is too full," she said, brushing a leaf from her ear.

"Too loud?" asked the woodpecker.

He tried again, tapping as softly as falling seeds, but still filling every moment. The squirrel stopped halfway through her turn.

"I can't find a place for my jump."

The woodpecker looked at his branch. He had practiced for weeks. Surely fewer beats would make him seem less skilled.

"Show me without the music," he said at last.

The squirrel took three small steps. Her feet whispered against the earth. Then she turned, bent her knees, and waited for one breath before jumping.

The woodpecker lifted his beak to fill that breath.

"Wait," she said."That part belongs to my feet, even when they aren't moving."

He watched her try again. This time, he tapped for the steps, rolled a quick beat through the turn, and stopped.

Into the silence, the squirrel jumped.

At the gathering, the woodpecker played fewer beats than ever before. During the final pause, everyone watched the squirrel rise, her tail curved above her like a question mark.

She landed exactly with his last sharp tap.

The clearing filled with applause. The woodpecker lifted his beak, ready to add a splendid roll.

Then he lowered it and let the applause continue.