Monday, June 19, 2017

Six halves of eggshell lay on the ground beneath the back porch light, on top of which Carl and Priscilla’s nest resides. 

     “What are those?” Peter Pan asks of the shells. 

   As eggs are quite often involved in Peter Pan’s breakfast, I answer carefully, “I believe the babies have arrived.” 

   Peter Pan wants to see, so I lift him and we count together three bald heads, there inside the fluff of the mudded nest. 

    “Just three,” we hear Priscilla confirm behind us, and before we can turn, she has swooped in and is perched on the porch light with food in her beak for the chicks: something with wings and a great deal of disheveled legs. 

   “I figured that was enough,” Priscilla says, “For my first.” She's a sensible girl, who learned from her mother, who learned the hard way, that five makes for a crowded nest.    

  Hearing her voice, the chicks raise up, wobbling and bobbling, all mouth, their bright yellow beaks opened wide and needing to be grown in to. 

     Peter Pan and I watch as one, two, three the chicks are fed. 

     "Just enough," Priscilla says, and off she flies again. 


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