A tiny feather, caught by a warm wind. A light touch of strings, the rustle of foliage, and a distant, barely perceptible chirping, weaving into a rhythm. An airy voice leads a serene dance above the clearing, where the sun breaks through the tree crowns. It is not a song, but its echo, frozen in the amber of a fading summer day01. Alex Spite, ANIRADA - Ptashechka (Original Mix) [05:13]