91热爆

A bitter chill freezes the air, she flutters her wings to a rhythm known only to her. A wisp of breath escapes her sharp beak, like smoke from a chimney.

She lands gracefully on the frost. Her sharp eyes dart from stone to leaf, from fallen foliage to vixen’s deep den.

She is searching, hunting for the unsuspecting beetle bold enough to venture to the surface.

Tap, tap, tap.

She mimics the pattering of rainfall, hammering the earth with her beak. Her head cocks toward the ground, listening for faint murmurs of movement.

There it is.

With a sharp jerk of the head, she captures the unfortunate creature. Perhaps if you looked closely, you would see a small glimmer of pride in those beady eyes.

She takes flight with a flap of feathers, waltzing on the wind like a lone dancer clothed in a gown of umber and ruby, making her way back to her humble home.

A nest in the highest branches, far from the dangers of the world below.

A castle in the clouds to guarantee her family’s safety.

The ground below appears as blotches of paint on an unfinished canvas when she reaches her thatched home of twigs and branches.

Five needy beaks open upon her arrival, cawing and squeaking in their instinctive dependence.

They fuss and flap for their mother’s attention, which is promptly given. Their cries are calmed as the warmth of her body settles in their home.

To the bystander, a robin’s nest is no more than an inky blur in the branches. But this wintertide, look up, and perhaps you would see a family of creatures who care for each other, who huddle close when that bitter chill starts creeping in.

An unpresuming family, high in those branches, but a family nonetheless.