A few mornings ago, I woke to hear rain pelting the outside world and little bird chirps. This is the story that burbled out from that moment. Dawn crept toward Wee Bird’s lake and forest home. With a sturdy leg, and one weakened an age during an encounter with Bully Bird, he gripped a leafless tree branch. His feathers lifted and fluffed to the chill morning air. Clouds, as broodingly gray as Wee Bird’s mood, taunted him from high above. The lake’s surface woke, glazing with diminutive ripples.  A raindrop, large and heavy, splattered on Wee Bird’s head. Sheesh, he peeped. Another, and then another. It figures, he groused. Wee…