There was a baby bird in my driveway the other day. It fell from the tree in front of my
duplex. When sitting at my computer, I
could hear the little bird crying to its parent bird for food. I watched out the window as the parent bird
flew hither and yonder fetching particles of food to cram into the wide screaming
mouth of its offspring. From patch of
grass to edge of nest, again and again that parent bird flew. And that parent bird kept cramming that food
into that never satiated wide screaming mouth.
That parent bird tirelessly, selflessly, feeds that wide screaming
mouth.
And then the baby fell.
That fallen baby, probably more an adolescent in bird age, with its
disappearing down and half-feathered wings, fell from the tree and wandered to
the driveway. The parent bird, now
bouncing from ground to wire, beckons the baby with rapid-fire twitter. Mia, my cat, spies the baby bird. Parent bird hovers below the wire screeching
with puffed feathers.
“Mia, git…shoo... go.”
She does.
Parent bird continues the bounce and beckon, inching closer
to the woods. Baby bird flexes his wings
like a “big boy.” He catches no
air. He has yet to take flight. Bounce
and beckon, bounce and beckon, bounce
and beckon. Baby bird reaches the
back stoop and, wing over beak, climbs the first two steps. Bounce
and beckon, bounce and beckon, bounce and beckon. Baby bird thoughtlessly follows the bounce
and beckon of the parent. Baby bird
topples in the grass and over the rocks in his path and tumbles with that wide
chirping mouth. Baby bird wanders to a
puddle and splashes his reflection with his “not so big boy” wings. That parent bird bounces and beckons, tirelessly, selflessly leads that wide
chirping mouth.
