Seven baby birds—barn swallows?—with buff colored breasts and dark, mottled feathers, dark and shiny as though flight had not yet dulled their sheen. Five on the top wire, two below. The three on the right flap their wings simultaneously. Flight practice. Remembering their lessons. They are ready, yet hesitant. A couple of the more adventuresome ones leave the wire, dart about in erratic circles, and land successfully again. I didn’t see them travel up there, to the wires outside my window, but now there’s an adult—yes, it is a barn swallow—diving in circles around them, chasing them away from the safety of their perch. Baby steps, baby flights. It’s all the same. Soon, they’ll be dive-bombing the bugs that George kicks up with the tractor.
I looked at my daughter this evening at dinner. Her milk moustache was gone.
Till later….
I looked at my daughter this evening at dinner. Her milk moustache was gone.
Till later….
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