I used to watch the nested birds

The awkward little ones, feathers still unsmooth

Those are always my favorites: the balky peri-fledglings

As their parents nudged them toward the nest’s edge

And I imagined the thoughts of those unready unsteady

Little ones

Peeking over the edge of the nest

Looking down down down

And out into the unfathomably vast world

“Do they hate me?”

The little birds must be thinking, I thought

And “What did I do wrong? Ask for too many

Worms? I was hungry! They’re supposed to… I didn’t mean…”

Or worse, maybe they are realizing that their parents believe

In them

A horrible apprehension

Because, we awkward littles know

Our parents are wrong

They believe we can fly

We know we can’t

We know we are the one who can’t

And our parents will suffer when they discover

This truth

But now I am thinking about those parent birds

Pushing their baby toward the edge

Believing he can fly

Despite his never having flown before

And despite wanting to cuddle him back down

In the too tight coziness of the nest

Just a little longer

But nudging him anyway toward that edge

Knowing he can fly

And must

Still so little and not smooth but still, it’s time;

They can feel it gradually dawning

Maybe it’s their hope and belief or love that will keep him

from hitting the ground hard when he takes to the air

Not really though

It will be his wings

He will find his own wind current

And float on the joy of of his own devising

They know this

So now I will look up in solidarity at those wise parent birds

Whose hearts are breaking but also bursting

Who nudge their baby bird to the nest’s edge

Knowing

He was born to fly

Away

Rachel Vail

1 November 2016