Fledglings and Nestlings

The wrenlings fledged.  They ventured out of the nest one morning and convened on the windowsill for an hour or so, until their tireless parents coaxed them into flight, and then into the sheltering security of the trees.   I will miss them. 
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​Defer thy flight a moment still / To clean thy wing with careful bill.
And thou are feathered, thou art flown; / And hast a project of thine own.

- Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Fledgeling
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And the little finch finally built her nest.  She did, at last, change her tactics and decided to construct her little home in the asparagus fern, hanging in a basket just below the ledge she was so determined to make her foundation. Perhaps a fellow of her's, one with a greater dose of logic and a slimmer sense of romance, informed her that those perpetual efforts to build on the ledge were leaving the realm of virtuous perseverance and entering that of the infamous definition of insanity. 
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​Regardless, she has moved on with admirable adaptability and doesn't appear to regret it.   In fact, she is currently chirruping in a scolding tone to three bald-headed, open-beaked, cacophonous young ones. I like to think she is feeling quite satisfied with life. 

​Thou art like the bird
That alights, and sings
Though the frail spray bends--
​ For he knows he has wings.

- Victor Hugo, A Simile