fledgling

a feather brings a message, a feather is a sign

The fledgling is perched unsteadily on the edge of a garden chair, studying me with beady black eyes. ‘We found a baby bird!’ my youngest boy told me, tugging at my hand. I put down my needle and thread and follow him outside, expecting a tiny, helpless nestling, but meet instead an inquisitive young jackdaw, head tilted to one side, feet gripping tightly. Two adult birds—presumably its parents—circle above, having abandoned their favoured perch in the beech opposite my loft-room study. ‘Should we rescue it, Mum?’ the boy asks.

I show him the RSPB website I have pulled up on my phone: ‘if you find a fledgling’ it reads ‘leave them alone.’ The fledgling has left the nest for the first time but its feathers are still developing, I explain, and its parents are caring for it. Soon, though, it will be ready to fly alone. From the window, the boy watches the bird, its wing-tips fluttering as it launches itself upwards again and again. When he returns to the garden after supper, the fledgling has gone, the sky is quiet.

I spend the afternoon sewing name labels into the boy’s clothes. Iron-on labels are quicker but I like the close attention of sewing, the deliberate action of needle through fabric, each tiny stitch an expression of care. The next morning, the boy carries a full suitcase down the front steps, ready for his first school residential —all weekend he has been counting down the hours. I realise with a jolt that it is five years to the day since his eldest brother made the same trip. Walking to the carpark, the boy is quieter than usual, allowing me to hold his hand until we round the corner and he catches a glimpse of his friends. He gives me a brief, hard hug and climbs aboard the coach without a backward glance.

Five years and five days ago, on the afternoon the eldest was due home from his residential, I waited in the pouring rain for his coach to round the corner. The assembled parents cheered when it appeared—four nights had seemed to us then like a piece of forever. I stood under my umbrella and waved to the steamed-up windows. I couldn’t see him, or anyone, clearly, but then came the flash of a camera, and I spotted him, using up the last shot on his film: taking a photograph of me, waiting for him. As he tumbled down the coach steps, he looked a little dazed—older, taller, his face browner. He fought his way through the other parents, over a mountain of bags and fell into my arms. ‘I missed you so much!’ he gasped in a husky, almost-lost voice, pulling back to kiss me. I held him tight and buried my face in his hair, breathing him in, unwilling to ever let him go again.

The house is quiet now, with the youngest boy gone. I sit in my study and listen to the jackdaws call outside my window. My middle son is at school and the eldest is revising for exams, the last of which he will complete at the end of the week—shortly before his younger brother returns, he will walk out of school for the final time. In his wardrobe, a prom suit hangs ready—blue like his eyes, the colour of a jay’s wing

On the day the youngest boy left I worked in the bookshop, unpacking a box of new books as sunlight swept across the floor through the open door. Suddenly, my eye was caught by movement— a long black feather had appeared, suspended in the doorway. It twirled in the air for several seconds—dancing in slow motion—and then gently, deliberately, it floated into the shop before spiralling down to the floor. As I picked it up, and turned it over in my hands, I felt the hairs on my arms stand up.

I do not yet understand its meaning but I know that a feather brings a message; a feather is a sign.

Thank you for reading,

Laura 🪶

PS: My new book Chasing Fog is now available to preorder. It is not a book about birds, but feathers flutter through its pages nonetheless. The jackdaws from the beech tree are there, along with gulls and ravens, a buzzard, kestrel, robin and song thrush.

It is a book about finding the path to re-enchantment: a search for self and story, a love song to weather and nature’s power to transform. I’d be thrilled if you would pre-order a copy. Hold on to your receipt if you do, because there’s a special Substack pre-order bonus to come. 💚 (If you don’t live in the UK, Blackwells offer free international delivery.)