The lark built her nest with fine grass.

Then lined it with feathers.

Then added moss, so nothing would hurt.

She kept adding.

A branch creaked: she replaced it.

The wind blew: she pressed the edges tight.

The sun beat down: she covered the entrance.

Each adjustment was love.

Each love, a little less world.

The fledglings grew soft.

They slept without moving.

They dreamed without startling.

Their claws didn’t know how to grip.

The day they had to fly, they opened their wings and felt the air like a blow.

It wasn’t the sky that was heavy.

It was never having touched it.

Moral:
Whoever pads the nest all the way to the bottom
doesn’t prepare the flight.
Prepares the fall.

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