Baby birds

The day was water-balloon hot, the sort of day when people claimed you could fry an egg on the pavement.

We roamed, tshirtless, relishing the pre-puberty freedom where boys saw no difference in our bared chests.

Time only mattered in the context of being whisked away for tea; a fleeting pause before we'd scamper back to the haze of continued escapades.

We claimed the old barn at the back of our house as our playground. It offered the dual joys of summer adventures and the absence of grown-up eyes.

An aged, white ladder clung to the barn's side, its creaks telling tales of years gone by.

Out of reach and out of eyesight

We quickly discovered the squeaking nest, perched precariously at the rafters' intersection, just out of our reach, even with the ladder.

The chirrups of the unseen birds, calling for their mother, ignited our determination to see them, no matter the cost.

Greg, ever the adventurer, took command. With a calculated glance at the rafters, he positioned the ladder beneath them, instructing us to cushion the ground with old blankets and mattresses, forming a makeshift safety net.

The ladder protested under Greg's weight, echoing through the barn. His skin, a tapestry of golden-brown hues and dirt, shimmered with sweat.

Straining, he gripped a rusty, peeling bar, his muscles tensing as he lifted it. With a grunt of effort, he jabbed the bar upwards.

A tragic ballet

The nest, disturbed by this intrusion, spiralled down in a tragic ballet, its contents scattering in disarray.

I often hope the birds met an instantaneous end.

The memory of their fragile forms, trembling in our grubby, curious hands, is a weight I still carry.

My mum, with an honest cruelty that contrasted our clumsy curiosity, repositioned the nest on the barn's paneless sill.

Her words, sombre and final, lingered in the thick air: "Their mother won't come for them now. Not now she can smell you on them. She'll just let them die." Her voice a quiet dirge for lost innocence.

The image of the baby birds, their eyes clouded and lifeless and waiting, as we held them with naive awe, is etched in my mind.