On High

It became another obsession (as if I didn't already have enough obsessions): Watching these baby birds in the nest outside my office grow. They were a mother's angst, a father's patience, eggs. They were hatchlings and beaks. They were miniature lochness monsters with tufted rubber heads, and then they were winged. What has it been? A few nights' worth of dreams, a few days of work, and while all of that was happening (and it seemed like nothing was), three new birds emerged, ready.

Two took flight yesterday.

This morning the third stood at the edge of its nest, waiting for something like a sign. I took one last imperfect photograph (the nest being wrapped into a dark, focus-defeating cove), came inside, put my camera down, then heard what I thought was a knocking at my door. It was wings instead—the last chicks' wings, beating and beating, seeking flight. The bird hopped, it skittered, it banged up against a post, then it wobbled off the edge of my porch, and into my garden, beneath the fringed leaves of my miniature Japanese maple. It's out there somewhere now. Home is still here, if it needs it.