Animal Farm part 3:

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" Gideon crowed. So, as another day came and went, so did the talking. Clover woke up the next morning and she just couldn't wait to see if she could run or climb. She can run, but the climbing had all just been a dream. When Clover didn't talk, Her mother, Abigail, had lost her voice, too. She lunged toward the barrel, but her jump fell short. She bumped her nose against the wood, sending the barrel rolling slightly. Gideon shrieked in surprise, flapping his wings, while nearby, Hattie the white hen clucked in disapproval. Hattie, whose feathers were beautifully defined by dark grey outlines, shook her bright red comb, adjusted her yellow beak, and scurried away on her yellow feet to find a quieter spot for breakfast. Walter trotted over to the disappointed kid. His dark grey mane and tail tip swished side to side, and his light grey underbelly huffed as he stopped. Twitching his long ears, Walter lowered his whitish muzzle and gave Clover a sympathetic nudge with his nose, letting out a gravelly bray that sounded like an old friend offering a comforting hug. Silas ambled over next, his fluffy white body looking like a cloud rolling across the grass. His dark grey face, ears, and legs blended into the shadows of the fence. Silas gave a soft, quiet baa, standing close to Clover to remind her that she was safe and loved, even if she was firmly grounded. Just then, Abigail trotted out of the barn, her eyes fixed on her adventurous daughter. She walked up to a small, low-lying wooden crate near the barn wall—only a few inches off the ground. Abigail hopped onto it effortlessly, then looked back at Clover with an encouraging blink. Clover's eyes brightened. She trotted over, tucked her legs, and gave a little hop. Her front hooves caught the edge, then her back hooves followed. She was standing on the crate! It wasn't a mountain peak, and it wasn't the barn roof, but she was high up, looking out over the farm yard. The strange, chaotic energy of the morning faded away completely. The animals had lost their unusual voices from before and had gone back to their usual, comforting sounds. Barnaby grunted in the mud, Beatrice's bell jingled over a soft moo, Sterling neighed gently, the chickens clucked and crowed, Walter brayed, Silas bleated, and Abigail gave a proud, normal goat bleat. Clover stood tall on her little crate, let out a tiny, victorious bleat of her own, and decided that being a little goat on the ground wasn't so bad after all.