“Who left the worm guts in the good nest?”
The forest went quiet.
Not actually quiet, of course. Forests were incapable of shutting up. Leaves whispered among themselves. Insects conducted whatever tiny, irritating business required that much buzzing. Somewhere beyond the trees, water moved over stone with the smug persistence of something that had nowhere else to be. A warm wind pushed through the canopy, carrying the damp perfume of moss, bark, old rain, and something dead enough to be interesting.
But on one particular branch, silence had become a survival strategy.
Peep stood with both wings spread, feathers puffed until he looked twice his actual size and considerably more important. He was six days old, still wearing patches of baby fuzz, and had recently discovered righteous indignation.
It suited him.
The wind caught his left wing and nearly spun him sideways.
Peep recovered immediately.
Nobody mentioned it.
This was wise.
His mother sat several inches away, studying him with the expression of someone reconsidering every reproductive decision she’d ever made.
His father peeked around the tree trunk.
He surveyed Peep.
He surveyed Mother.
Then he slowly withdrew his head.
Cowardice, Peep thought.
Typical.
“I asked a question.”
Mother scratched beneath one wing.
Peep waited.
She scratched beneath the other.
“Are you finished?”
“I haven’t even begun.”
“Oh, good.”
Peep pointed dramatically toward the nest tucked into the crook of the tree above them. It had once been a respectable establishment constructed from twigs, grass, moss, and approximately seventeen pieces of material stolen from places nobody intended birds to steal from. Now it smelled like wet feathers, crushed berries, old worms, and regret.
“There are sunflower shells everywhere. Somebody pooped near my sleeping spot. Again. There is half a beetle stuck to the wall, and this morning I found a severed leg under my moss.”
Mother blinked.
“Your moss?”
“Yes. My moss.”
“You don’t own moss.”
“I selected it.”
“You fell asleep on it.”
“Exactly. Possession.”
“You fell out of the nest twice yesterday.”
“That is irrelevant.”
“You were chasing your own tail feathers.”
“I was conducting an investigation.”
“Into what?”
Peep hesitated.
That was classified.
His father made a tiny choking sound from behind the tree.
Peep’s head snapped toward him.
“You think this is funny?”
Father’s beak disappeared.
Peep stared at the empty space where his father had been.
“That’s what I thought.”
Mother resumed preening.
That irritated Peep more than an argument would have. There was something deeply insulting about trying to deliver a serious address concerning the collapse of civilization while your audience cleaned its armpits.
Peep paced along the branch.
He had been thinking about this for most of the morning, which represented a significant percentage of his entire life. The conclusion was unavoidable: he was surrounded by animals.
Technically, yes, they were all animals.
That wasn’t the point.
“I am the only bird in this family who cares about standards.”
Mother stopped preening.
“We live like pigeons.”
Silence.
Even Father poked his head around the trunk.
Mother’s eyes narrowed.
There were words a civilized bird simply did not use.
“Watch your mouth.”
“I said what I said.”
“Peep.”
“Look at the place!”
He pointed toward the nest again.
“Yesterday, Dad was adverlying about this place as a ‘premium woodland residence with panoramic views.’”
Father reappeared. “I was attracting renters.”
“We have one bedroom.”
“Open floor plan.”
“We don’t have a floor.”
“Rustic.”
“The roof leaks.”
“Natural ventilation.”
“You can see a squirrel’s butt from the front door.”
Father considered this.
“Panoramic.”
Mother closed her eyes.
Sometimes love wasn’t enough. Sometimes you looked at the bird you’d chosen to build a life with and understood why certain species ate their mates.
Peep continued pacing, growing increasingly drunk on the intoxicating nectar of his own argument.
“Furthermore, this nest has no organizational system. Worm goes in, worm comes out, leftovers go over the side. Seed shells? Over the side. Beetle parts? Over. The. Side. We shouldn’t need a committee.”
Another gust of wind swept through the trees. Leaves shivered. The branch swayed beneath Peep’s feet, and the scent of pine and wet earth washed over him.
He paused.
For one brief moment, he looked beyond his outrage.
The forest stretched farther than he could understand. Green upon green disappeared into shadows. Sunlight slipped through the canopy in pale golden fragments. Somewhere out there were hawks, snakes, storms, winters, and countless things he didn’t even have names for yet.
Peep was six days old.
The world was enormous.
Perhaps that was why the nest bothered him.
It was the only part of the world small enough to control.
He looked back at his parents.
Naturally, this profound realization changed absolutely nothing.
“I have developed a prescription for this family’s chronic filthiness.”
Mother stared at him.
“A prescription.”
“Yes.”
“You’re six days old.”
“I’ve had a busy week.”
Father nodded thoughtfully from behind the tree. “He has.”
Mother looked at him.
Father vanished.
Peep raised one wing and began counting.
“Clean the nest twice daily. Organize worms according to size. Beetles go on the left, berries on the right. No miscellaneous body parts in sleeping areas. And nobody poops until they’ve checked which direction the wind is blowing.”
Father’s head appeared again.
“That’s actually not bad advice.”
Mother turned her head approximately three degrees.
Father disappeared.
Peep smiled.
Victory had a taste.
Apparently, it tasted like yesterday’s caterpillar still stuck to the corner of his beak.
Mother looked toward the nest.
Then at Peep.
Then back toward the nest.
“You know what?”
Peep straightened.
Here it came.
Recognition.
Respect.
Perhaps an apology.
“You’re right.”
His tiny chest swelled.
Mother smiled sweetly.
“Since you’re so concerned about cleanliness, you can clean it.”
Peep’s wings slowly lowered.
The forest resumed its ordinary noise.
A beetle crawled across the branch.
Peep watched it pass.
This was how revolutions died, he realized. Not through superior force. Not through ideological defeat.
Chores.
Father leaned around the tree, making absolutely no effort to conceal his grin.
Mother settled comfortably against the branch.
Peep looked at them.
Then at the nest.
Then at the beetle leg protruding from beneath his beloved moss.
His face hardened.
“This family is toxic.”
Father fell off the other side of the tree laughing.
Memoirs of Madness 