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The lark built the nest right. Fine grass, well-woven. Then she lined it.
Every wind, she patched it. Every creak, she fixed it. Every adjustment was careful and right.
The chicks slept without moving.
Their feet never gripped.
When the time came, they opened their wings. The air hit them hard.
Not because the air was hard.
Because they had never touched anything like it.
Moral
Pad the nest long enough
and the fall is what you have been preparing.
Not the flight.