Mrs. Robin's Arc

Chapter 9 of 10

The pantry was full, but the babies were changing. Mrs. Robin noticed it at the morning check. The smallest one stretched a wing across his brother's back. The middle one hopped once, then twice, and landed hard on the rim. She went cold. She nudged him back to the center with her beak. She counted to ten before her chest warmed again. They were ready to try their wings. She had known this day would come. She had not planned for it. Below the nest tree there was only bare dirt, roots, and one flat stone. A first flutter that failed would end on that stone. She looked down a long time. Then she flew. She searched the wet ground past the swamp. She needed something soft, something thick, something a small body could land in without breaking. She found it near a shaded slope: a wide pile of deep green moss, layered and springy under her feet. She pressed it with her beak. It gave, then lifted back. She pulled a clump free and flew it home. She dropped it under the nest tree. The clump looked small on the ground. She flew back. She pulled more. She made twenty trips before noon. Her wings burned. She said thank you to the moss each time she tore it, because her babies were listening from above. By afternoon a thick green bed spread under the tree, wider than the nest's shadow. She walked its edges and pushed the loose pieces tight. She lay down in the middle and let her weight test it. The moss held her without a sound. She flew up to the nest. The middle chick was on the rim again. This time she did not nudge him back. She stood beside him and looked down at the green bed she had made. "If you fall," she said, "you fall there. Not on the stone." He looked at her. He looked down. He opened his wings and dropped. Her body went cold the whole way. He flapped once, twice, tilted, and hit the moss on his side. The moss folded around him. He rolled, sat up, and chirped. He was not hurt. The other two came to the rim. She did not stop them. The smallest jumped first and landed in a green dent near his brother. The last one froze on the edge, then stepped off and half-flew, half-fell into the pile. All three sat in the moss, blinking up at her. She flew down and stood among them. She said thank you out loud, to the moss, to the day, to whatever had let this go the way it went. Then she looked at the ground beyond the green bed. The forest floor stretched out in every direction, and her babies could already hop. They were not in the nest anymore. She would have to follow them into the rest of the world.