Story-A-Day #201: Under The Ferns

UNDER THE FERNS

They sway gently in the breeze, a peaceful tattoo of sunlight dancing across their leaves. From the back steps of the house they looked as they should, a small patch of greenery lining the slated fence.

It wasn’t until I got a little closer that I could see that it was more than the gently breeze that was making the ferns move.

I approached them slowly, not wanting to scare whatever it was underneath them. With small, tentative steps, I approached, then slowly lowered myself to the ground.

I could feel the moisture from the lawn slowly seeping into my shirt, the remnants of last night’s dew not yet burned away by the sun. It actually feels nice, almost soothing.

I lie prone for a moment, waiting to see is the source of the rustling is aggressive, or scared. At first, there is nothing. It knows I am here, just as I know of its existence. I wait patiently, then I hear it, a small chirping sound.

I cautiously extend a hand and part the greenery. At first, all I can see in the dappled light is the grass and earth beneath, but then a subtle movement catches my attention and I see it – a small pink nestling, fallen from the safety of its home.

Its beady black eyes roll towards me and its beak parts in an almost mute cry.

It is trembling, its naked flesh raw and clean. There are no feathers yet, giving the creature a somewhat alien appearance.

I know it is doomed if I leave it here, unprotected and immobile. And yet, if I were to remove it, the fate would be the same. Any contact will result in abandonment.

I scan the tree above and spot the nest, a small bundle of twigs and dirt woven into the crook of two branches.

What it must be like to be so close to home, yet so far away.

I decide to leave the bird for now, hoping that maybe the mother will come to collect it. I will make sure that no predators get there first.

On the fence above, a fat red-breasted robin surveys me appreciatively. There is no warning calls, no shrill threats, just a calculating glance and a quick blink of the eyes.

Maybe it will be okay. Maybe the bird will live, and maybe it will perish. I realize that unfortunately, the result is not a choice into which I factor.

I slowly stand up and return to the steps of the house. I sit down to wait, and to watch, hoping that that little pink bird will have a chance to live.