of other birds

The matter of our story should be a part of the habitual furniture of our minds.
~C.S. Lewis, "On Three Ways of Writing for Children"

Breezes buffet our west walls, a reminder of winter, even though last week nearly felt like June. The Finch nest holds just fine, apparently, with wifey carrying out fluffs and resettlings over her unseen brood. I don't know if there are hatchlings yet; if so they aren't vocal, but perhaps in a week our ears will tell us whether there are children; our eyes may appraise a couple of parents on breakfast, lunch, and dinner duty. What a time of life, the days of little ones in the nest.

From what I've read, only two weeks or so after hatching the little finches fly away. That's quick. Bird life must often be quick, I suppose. In human life, it only seems as though a fortnight passes between "hatching" and "flight."

Our fine feathered children are making plans. Both have found "other birds" to spend time with, with whom to develop patterns for building their lives.

Seasons of stories before sleep with Dr. Suess, Roald Dahl, Lewis, and Tolkien appear to have only passed days ago. I'm still so grateful for pages turned, yawning (on my part, not the children's), the rhymes, the giants, the dragons, the gems. The noble characters and their relationships to others, some good-seeking, some bad. How did our favorite authors manage to exemplify what it takes to see it through, to endure, with and for one another?

They must have carried, as quoted above, such ideals for people as part of the habitual furniture of their minds.

Nothing, of course, guarantees my dear brood won't face into heartache, branches broken and nests undone, the painful toil of adult seasons. Some or all of that is a given. So the stories told us, too, sometimes.