The little bird crept closer to the edge of his nest.

He felt the down shift beneath him, the twigs had grown dry and brittle. The recent storms had tugged at the once sturdy home until it shook with even the slightest breeze. The bird looked out at the graying sky, the air was flat and stale today. A bad day to go, he thought, but go he must. Turning his gaze downward, the bird anxiously eyed the rugged branches below. He had hesitated enough already, and with a resigned nod to himself, he leapt down.

The first branch was thin and he had to spread his tiny wings for balance as he wavered on his toes. Once steadied, he peered about and chose his next stop, another leap, and he landed more firmly. Branch by branch he made his descent, teetering occasionally, otherwise unjustly confident for his first time out of the nest. He often looked back up, to the shadowy underside of his former home. It looked strange from below, and grew upsettingly small the further he went from it.

Eventually, the little bird neared his final jump, where he would land in the murky tangle of underbrush. This was not a place any feathery thing ought to be for long, but the little bird had to go, for only the tortoise was old and wise enough to help him, a bird who could not fly. This was his great misfortune, and the reason he was alone, for his family had long flown south for the winter. The little bird had waited too long in fear, if the tortoise had helped him quickly, he might have left soon enough to meet them again in that warm and distant land. Now, he would have to find a way to survive the winter here. Perhaps the tortoise could help him with this as well.

He pulled his wings tightly to himself, wiggling a bit, looked again with darting glances all around the strange landscape below, and jumped. The distance to the ground was much further, and he fanned his feathers to slow the fall. Cold air rushed past him, raking its fingers through the warm depth of his down. These icy claws seemed to catch at him, and he suddenly tumbled over himself. For a stretched moment, he could see his nest. Dreadfully small and distant. Something that had once been full to bursting with warm wiggling chicks now looked lifeless. If his little heart could fall further, it would have crashed to the ground before he could finish his plummet.

The forest floor came to meet him in an unfriendly way. He bounced and stopped abruptly in a cascade of pine needles.

The little bird twitched his toes in the air, then twisted his bruised wings and righted himself. He had never stood on such a flat surface before, and his feet felt unsteady with nothing to wrap around. All was silent as he took in his unpleasant surroundings. It was more confined than the leafy tree in the heat of summer. Strange plants curled dry and dying on their trembling stocks, and rocks littered around. The rocks were more harsh and heavy, nothing like the eggs the other birds had likened them to when he asked. They had said he sunk through the air like a stone in the pond. The little bird did not like being compared to the dark and weighty rocks. They seemed as though they might come to life and roll roughly over him at any moment. Surely he would be crushed to dust under their assault.

He looked again to the nest, and wished he could return to it’s familiar crevice, even if only for a moment. There would be no going back, not even if he could fly. So he blinked upwards at it’s strange and unfitting silhouette, shivering off the last of his courage. Birds are meant to leave the nest, the others had said. But they could fly. Their home was the whole blue sky and all its many winds. His home was fixed, disintegrating out of reach. He turned away, glancing back many times as he did, and hopped slowly into the awaiting shadows, on to find the tortoise.

“You may look back as much as you want, but still you must go.” - Unknown