The Third Night

I lived in a hole in an old tree. I was little then. I could see in the dark. All owls can. The night is for us. But I could not fly.

Every night my mother flew out. Every night she came back with food.

“Where do you go?” I said.

“Out,” she said. “Come and see.”

The first night I opened my wings. The ground was far. I did not jump.

The second night I jumped. I fell. I hit a low branch and I held it with my feet. My mother did not help me. She watched.

The third night I did not look down. I jumped, and the air held my wings, and I flew to my mother’s branch.

She had a mouse for me. I took it.

“Where do you go now?” she said.

“Out,” I said.