At the old house, in the old barn, I saw a flutter behind the small and smeary window. Inside I found the robin, arms wide, mouth wide, pressing its feathered fingers against the glass. I wrested the barn door open and walked from the back to the front - frightening the bird with my love and concern so that it could find its freedom outside. At the new house, under the eaves of the shed, we saw a flutter. The four robins-in-the-making had been frightened and fledged too soon. In the dirt and grass they shook their not-yet wings. We stalked the lawn with tea towels, whispered our love and concern to big black eyes and big beak grins. We collected the fledglings into a Tupperware bowl and tipped them out - pouring angry, grinning, half-feathered birds back into their nest - but we only found three of the four. That night, the late spring frost (unsure of itself) sighed cautious and ice-embroidered breath on the lawn, the shed, the feathers. Had I known how the scales would be balanced - despite all our love and concern - at the old house, in the old barn I would have left the door closed.
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This feels like when my memory connects two similar things and imagination weaves a linear connection between the two. Imagines the alternate timeline where changing the action changes the second outcome. Even if my brain knows that there is no logical connection between them.