It was
spring. My
brother and I were both in that
pre-pubescent phase where we annoyed the hell out of each other, and
hot dogs were flying through the air between our plates. We were sitting at the
picnic table out back when we heard a series of strange noises:
Tweet! Tweet! Thunk
Tweet! Tweet! Thunk
We turned around and watched in horror as the baby birds that had been growing up in the birdhouse near our window made a pathetic attempt at flying, only to fall to their deaths on the pavement below.
Tweet! Tweet! Thunk
Tweet! Tweet! Thunk
The hot dogs almost fell from our open mouths. Little bodies, running like lemmings to the edge and soaring with all of their might, so happy for a second, and then the fluttery panic of tiny useless wings. And then the ground. My father rushed to place a pillow underneath, but it was no use. We buried them in the yard and a new family soon moved into the birdhouse. So it goes.