Sunday morning, nursery arrival. Let’s go outside, get some air! A lone nighthawk slices through the light, her wings whispering secrets on the wind. Below, nestled amongst the rough wood and dry leaves, a tiny egg huddles, a fragile speck against the vastness.

 
The mother’s sharp eyes scan the endless expanse, ever vigilant. Children playing, a bit too close, worrying for a new mother. A constant echo of noise in her previously quiet abode. Click-click! Click! She demands. Go! Leave us!
 
The children move inside as she begins to hiss, and she breathes a sigh of relief. A chirp escapes her tiny egg, a sound both vulnerable and defiant. The mother lays close, a blur of dark feathers, awaiting this new light.
 
And then the egg hatches, to find a silent guardian. The chick scrambles forward, its ungainly legs propelling it with surprising urgency. The mother watches, patience etched in the glint of her obsidian eyes.
 
The chick reaches its prize, a feast found by mom to prepare. It tears into a bug, fueled by an instinct older than time. The mother remains watchful, her dark form camouflaged, blocking children from free play.
 
As the church releases, cars drive off but family remains. The chick, its hunger sated, snuggles back into the hollow, a tiny ball of warmth against the cool earth. The mother dips her wing, a fleeting caress, a silent promise whispered on the wind. They are alone, yet utterly connected, two souls bound by an ancient pact, a mother and child reminding the nursery of a lesson long known.