The Flying Lesson

I remember first learning about birds in elementary school. The details are fuzzy, but I know that bird mothers lay eggs and protect their newborns in their nest. Once hatched, she’ll bring them food by regurgitating it into their little waiting mouths. Then at one point, when she feels they should be ready, she pushes them from the nest.

I’ve never given much thought to what that means. I guess I’ve believed the mother bird pushes them from the nest whether or not the young birds are ready. Some birds will survive, some won’t, and that’s just reality of life as a bird. At least that’s what I’ve thought when I’ve noticed a tiny bird skeleton on a sidewalk. A bird with wings smaller than Nemo’s lucky fin, their feathers still looking like soft fur.

But yesterday I realized I was wrong about birds. For so long, I’ve believed mother birds are a bit ruthless and uncaring about the survival of their young. I’ve believed they’ll nurture them for a while, and then say you’re on your own. But yesterday I questioned my beliefs, what I thought I knew. Yesterday I witnessed my first flying lesson. 

I was sitting on my front steps when I heard a small chirp and saw movement in my peripheral vision. I stopped reading and looked over to my driveway. On the pavement, near the edge and fence line, I saw a young wren. His body small, his feathers still fluffy. Standing next to him was a slightly larger wren, obviously older from her sleek, silky feathers.

The young wren crouched slightly, furiously trying to flutter his wings, his action in vain. The older bird stood by, watching as the littler bird remained grounded. I imagined sweat beading on his little forehead from his effort. The older wren took one small hop forward, then one larger hop to land on the little wren’s back.

I was startled at first, confused by the interaction between the two birds. I watched the larger bird lose its footing and hop off before hopping back onto the smaller bird. With each hop it seemed like the larger bird was pushing its weight in a specific spot on the smaller bird. By the third hop, I could swear I was watching the older wren trying to show the little wren how to crouch better. I was.

With the other bird on his back, helping shift his body position, the little wren’s wings tilted into a position where they could flap just a bit harder. The larger bird hopped up again, this time fluttering its wings and taking off from the back of the little bird. The little bird crouched and fluttered as the larger bird again stood watching. There was another jump, another flight, another crouch. Then another.

Then it was different. With the next crouch, the little wren fluttered its wings and jumped forward. Excitement built as I silently cheered the young bird on, me and the older bird both watching. The next jump was a little bigger, the bird staying airborne just a second longer. The jump after that took the bird behind the fence and both birds moved out of my sight.

Thinking about the flying lesson I just saw, my gaze shifted toward my front lawn. Zoning out on the grass, another flutter of movement caught my eye. It was a different small wren with slightly fuzzy feathers. He was crouching and taking off in short, determined flights before quickly landing, then doing it again. A third fuzzy wren was using a similar flight style in the birch tree branches just above.

I realized then that the one older bird must be the mother, her nest nearby. The three little wrens were her offspring, each learning to fly. Two of the birds seemed to be getting the hang of it quickly, the third needing a little more time and attention before taking flight. I realized the mother wren wasn’t leaving her young to fend for themselves. She was doing all she could to help them be ready.

Watching the four birds from my front steps reminded me how often I’m wrong. How often I think I know something, only to be surprised when things are different or more than what I imagined. I’m surprised so often by my lack of knowledge that I’m never really surprised at all. There is always more to everything than what I think I know about any one thing.

Yesterday a little bird was learning to fly. I was lucky enough to see it happen, to learn that I was wrong about yet another thing I thought I knew. As a little wren learned to fly, I got to remember how much moments can surprise you when you give them enough room.