Jonathan Livingston Birdy
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Sean of the South
Sean Dietrich
The little seagull built her nest beneath the train tracks. She was huddled over her squeaking chicks. Her nest was only inches from the steel rails.
Two railway track maintainers stood at a distance watching her. Their neon vests, reflecting in the early morning light. Their hard hats pushed upward on their heads. They weren’t sure what to do with the bird.
“What is a bird doing on the tracks?” said one employee.
“How in the world did she get there?”
The mama bird looked so snug. So content. And she made it clear, she wasn’t leaving.
“We should probably move her,” said one employee.
“You can’t move a bird nest. If you move the nest, the mama might abandon her chicks and they’ll die.”
“But we have to move it or the train will kill them. A bird’s nest can’t survive this close to the tracks.”
The railway employee removed his helmet and ran his hands through his hair. This was the last thing he needed this morning.
Just then, a train was coming. Oh, no. The horn blasted. Two long. One short. Standard warning blast for a train approaching a crossing grade.
“Crap,” said one employee.
“What’ll we do?” said the other.
“I don’t know.”
The two railway employees just stared at each other. Unsure of what move to make next. They could either move the nest and probably kill the chicks, or leave it alone and watch them all die.
Nobody made any moves. Soon, it was too late. The booming CSX diesels were already roaring along the rails.
The two employees stood at a distance watching in mock disbelief as the monstrosity of iron and steel passed, with screams of metallic thunder.
It took a long time for the train to finally complete its crossing. The approximate length of a freight train in the U.S. is 1.5 miles long. Sometimes it can be even longer, stretching up to 3 miles. Or more.
The train finally clacked off into the horizon. The employees looking into the distance, watching the massive haul of gondolas, hopper cars, flat cars, boxcars, coil cars, tank cars, and well cars disappear.
They approached the tracks again to check on the nest. They fully expected to find a mass of bloody feathers. Either that, or the bird fluttered away, fleeing for its life, abandoning its young.
But no. The bird, her chicks, and her nest were still happily in place. Undisturbed.
By now, more train employees had gathered to gawk at the nest. They were all marveling at the fearless mama and her chicks.
“I cannot believe she survived,” said a female employee.
“Look at her,” said another. “She doesn’t even look worried.”
“I guess birds don’t worry like us.”
“Guess not.”
“Man. I wish I were a bird.”
Nobody said anything.
So, allow me to cut in and say something. In 1859, a woman named Elizabeth Cheney wrote a poem. It goes like this:
“Said the robin to the sparrow,
“‘I should really like to know,
“Why these anxious human beings
“Rush about and worry so.’
“Said the sparrow to the robin,
“‘Friend, I think that it must be,
“That they have no heavenly Father,
“Such as cares for you and me.’”
