The blinding sunshine and a cloudless sky make every yellow-green bush, mono-hued house, and dappled stray cat in the neighborhood look shiny. Freshly-mown grass mixed with dirt and hot asphalt perfume the air. Dead leaves litter the sidewalk with dewdrops reflecting sunlight like glitter.
In the shadow of a big oak tree, a crow hops around looking for bugs. Sticks. Shiny things. As it hops, it holds one foot above the ground like a permanently curled up leaf. The one-footed bird hops and pecks and hops and pecks. Another crow swoops down beside it, both feet on the ground. They hop-and-peck-and-hop-and-peck until they’ve gathered enough.
The two-footed bird hops over to the othered bird and they fly off together. They land in the tree just above where a nest rests snugly between two branches. Faint cheeps and tiny beaks pop out one after the other – exposing nature’s perfectly-timed choreography.
The one-footed bird, still with one foot curled under her, leans down and opens her beak while the chicks compete for the first bite. The two-footed bird stands beside her, ready to replenish her food supply.
When the chicks are full, their little heads start to droop and they fall asleep in the cozy nest. The one-footed bird carefully positions herself on top of them, letting her eyes droop and close too. The two-footed bird settles in beside them and keeps watch over their branch while his family sleeps.
In a month, she will teach her chicks to fly (she is better at it than him) and they will leave the nest. Then, just like the four-footed empty nesters, the one-footed bird and the two-footed bird will live in blissful peace for the rest of their days.
