This afternoon I heard a faint peeping high in the yew bushes. I looked up and just made out two little grey balls of fluff sitting on the boughs. Fledglings. Every few minutes a grown-up chickadee would zoom in and the fledglings would call out and flutter their wings, begging for dinner. In a few days, they’ll be strong enough to fly after their parents and follow them around, fluttering their wings and begging.
It’s an aggravating time for the parents, getting pestered night and day. And it’s a dangerous time for the fledglings, learning to be quick and wary.
Okay, cat. Time to come in. Want some catnip? Every kitty must get stoned.
Writing Every Day 