Currawong

I hear a bird calling — screeching, really. Needy. Possibly distressed.
I look up and spot it: a big chick, high on a branch, making a proper scene. No idea what’s going on, but it’s committed.

A moment later another bird appears. A currawong. Much smaller, but it hops closer anyway.

Wait. What?

It starts feeding the chick.

But it isn’t its chick — it can’t be. And then the penny drops: it’s a cuckoo chick. Not hers, I’m pretty sure. Not even close.

I know this is a thing. Cuckoos lay their eggs in other birds’ nests and the host bird ends up doing the feeding. I’ve just never seen it in real life.

And my judgement arrives right on cue.

Instant story: this is wrong. This isn’t fair. The ridiculous size difference. The demanding chick. The smaller bird doing the work.

It struck me how fast I moved from “I don’t understand this” to “this is wrong.”

It’s amazing how fast I’m off and running — victims, perpetrators, injustice — a whole moral universe assembled in seconds.

I’m ready to leave it there and take this into my day, but I stay a little longer.

Because awkward as it looks to me, they’re not bothered. One is hungry. The other feeds it. No drama. Just what’s happening.

And when I stop chasing a meaning for it, something else becomes possible: a little space. Enough to wonder if my story is the only story here.

I’m not so sure anymore.

What changed wasn’t the birds. It was me — staying with it past the first hit of judgement. Past the reflex. Past the need to be right.

Same birds. Same branch. Less need to make it wrong.