Friday May 27, 2005

The Fledgling

It was yesterday in the late afternoon when I heard a rustling sound near one of the windows on my left. I was at my computer working on a project.

I heard bird chirping and fluttering, then the commotion stopped. At first, I thought it was my two cockatiels—but they were asleep. A few moments later, more chirping. I went to the window. Nothing. Then, I looked down on the outside sill.

A fledgling had landed there somehow from one of the nearby trees. More chirping, calling out to its mother. Not wanting to interfere, I went back to my work.

In a while, dusk had settled in.

The fledgling had not moved from its corner. Well, action was now necessary. I would have to get a box to carry the bird out onto the grass under the tree near the window. I looked at the fledgling through the window screen; he looked back at me. I blew air in his direction. He didn’t move. I lifted the screen open. As soon as I gave a potent puff in his direction, the fledgling took off—he dove down, gained altitude, and then landed on branch. I felt elated at his success—our success. 

The fledgling didn’t know he could fly. All he needed was a caring nudge in the right direction. He was ready. After all, he had made his way to the ledge under his own power—because of his mother shoving him out of the nest or by flapping his wings a bit too hard.

This fledgling on the window sill had lessons to teach for anyone willing to listen.»

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