Where the Birds Go

Clara, a six-year-old girl, stands by the window of the little log house she and her family lives in watching the snowfall. Papa's in the barn, tending to the animals. But as she stares into the skies and into the bare branches of the trees, something occurs to her.

A new question.

A question she hasn't asked yet.

"Mama," she begins as she rests her chin on the sill, "where are all the birds?"

The sound of Mama pounding the bread dough on the table pairs with the sound of the fire crackling in the fire hearth. Clara's breath fogs the window and she presses her finger to the glass, making a circle.

"Hm?" Mama hums, "the birds?"

"Yes. There are no birds in the sky or in the trees. Do they die when it gets cold? Where do we get more birds?"

Clara turns to watch her mother wrap the dough in a cloth before wiping her flour-covered hands onto her apron. She looks up and smiles with a soft sigh.

"Come sit with me," she says and walks to the rocking chair that sits by the fire, her skirts fluffing as she sits.

Clara hops down from the chair she had been standing on and climbs up into her lap, eager to hear the answer. Holding her close, Mama pets her hair as she begins a tale.

"Through spring and summer, the birds sing, lay their eggs, raise their little families, and eat as much berries, bugs, and seeds as they can find. When they're tummies are full, a little bit of magic stores up inside them too."

"Magic?" Clara tilts her head back to look up at her Mama, brown eyes wide with wonder.

She smiles as she reaches for the brush on the mantel and tilts the young girl's head back down.

"Yes. And as more and more magic stores, they grow sleepier. When autumn draws near and the days become shorter, they know the time has come."

"But where do they sleep? They need blankets. Do they use the leaves for blankets?"

Mama runs the brush through her hair, shushing her gently. She opens her mouth to continue when the sound of thumping outside the door stops her. Clara gasps and jumps off Mama's lap to open it.

"Papa! Mama's telling me about what happens to the birds when it gets cold!"

A tall man with dark brown hair removes his snow-covered hat and grins between his daughter and his wife.

"Ah, the tale of the birds," he says as he places his boots just beside the door, "I know the story well. Have I interrupted?" He scoops Clara up in his arms after hanging up his coat, nuzzling her with his beard. She giggles and pushes away.

"Papa, you know what happens to the birds too?"

He nods as he sets the child down on her mother's lap so she can continue brushing her hair. After pulling up his own chair, he smiles and nods again, this time to his wife.

"Now, where was I?"

"The magic!" Clara lifts her hands into the air and her parents laugh before she continues with the story.

"Now, when the birds store up enough magic, they begin to take the forms of other animals. Creatures that aren't bothered by the cold weather."

Clara's eyes widen again but Papa presses a finger to his lips.

"Some birds take the form of mice or rats, while others take on the form of furrier creatures. Like Foxes and rabbits. This way, they can sleep warmly all throughout winter."

"And when the warm spring sun melts the snow," Papa says with a smile, "the birds return back to their natural form."

"Singing and eating berries, bugs, and seeds?" Clara asks.

"Yes," Mama chuckles, "Storing up more magic for the next winter."

When Clara went to bed that night, she promised herself she would find a mouse before spring. And when that time came, she dashes to her Mama and Papa, hands cupped in front of her.

The sun was out and birds were chirping as new leaves grew on the bare branches of the trees she stared up at for so long during the winter. Today, she would finally see the transformation for herself.

"Mama, Papa! I caught a mouse, I caught a mouse!"

"Oh, honey, let the poor thing go!" Mama exclaims first.

"But Mama, I want to see it turn into a bird! Just like you said."

Papa's brows rise, his mouth taking on the shape of an 'O' and he reaches for his wife's arm.

"Emelia," he says with a knowing grin.

"Oh," she holds a hand to her mouth before she turns back to her daughter, her face relaxing.

"But the little thing might be too scared to turn back in front of us."

Clara's face falls as she looks down at her hands, shoulders drooping.

"But..."

"Let me see the little feller," Papa says as he holds out his hands, "I have an idea."

Clara surrenders the little mouse to him, hope renewed, and they follow him up a grassy hill where several trees stand tall and budding with leaves. Among the branches, several birds are perched singing and fluffing their feathers.

"Quiet now," Papa whispers as he takes careful steps toward the trees. Mama and Clara giggle softly as they crouch down a few feet behind him. The little girl holds her breath as she watches him kneel and place the mouse in the tall grasses in front of him.

It scurries off, disappearing from sight and Papa stands abruptly. The sound of wings flapping fills the air as the birds take off, but another bird from the ground takes flight as well.

Right where the mouse had scurried off to.

"Look!" Papa calls out, pointing to the little sparrow.

"There he goes!"