Silently, I fly through the trees Leaves rustle, a twig snaps. My eyes flash open, two sulfurous spheres wide on my dish-like face. My white feathers are rumpled, awry, and misplaced on my back. I peer out of the tree, gazing out through my window, a round hole in the rough bark. Moonlight glimmers off every surface, landing in shimmering pools, splashed there. The rippling of the nearby brook, lapping at a damp and pebbled bank, singing a sweet, low lullaby, whispers through the night. My nest of twigs, leaves, and grasses fills most of the hollow, providing me and my eggs with a soft and comfortable residence. Beneath me, I feel movement, minute, miniscule movement, so small that I barely feel it. Hatch time is nearing, my chicks will soon emerge into this world, in need of life-giving sustenance, no more than ruffles of fluff. They will break free of their shells, naked of the thick protecting feathers I possess, and cry for food, shrill cries of hunger. They will need that sustenance for survival. I inch my head out of the knothole, finally emerging. The cold midnight wind slices through the air like a claw, and I spread my wings, embracing it, feeling the wind through my feathers. The moonlight casts a pale sheen on my snow-white feathers, glistening and dancing on the stream below. Through my precise eyes, I can glimpse every pebble, pushed along by the gentle current. I glide on the wind, flapping my wings every now and then. Silently, I fly through the trees, dodging askew branches and watching ever so intently for the movement of prey. The trees thin and the undergrowth begins to fall back, replaced by sparse, green grass. My eyes scan relentlessly, searching, ever searching, following the law put down by my ancestors, a law that has reigned above all others for millennia. Eat or be eaten, eat or die. The strongest survive. Those who are weak live for one purpose and one purpose only. To ensure that the strong survive. I search the ground, the trees cleared out completely, so that my vision is acute and free of blemishes. There, there it is. I wheel around towards the movement, focusing in on a quivering patch of rye grass. My talons open wide, eager to grasp the warm, living prey. The small miniscule ears twitch within the grass, with no inclination that I even exist. My silent wings flap steadily, placing me in position to dive and seize my prey. Eagerly, I focus on the minute, camouflaged body shuffling below. I tuck my wings and dive, talons outstretched. The unsuspecting prey moves nary an inch as I swoop in. Talon meets flesh, claw meets fur, and I snap out my wings, catching a drift upwards. The mouse entrapped in my talons wriggles and fights, but fruitless remain its attempts, for my claws hold fast to the rodent. Its fight weakens, its life source seeping away slowly until it hangs limp. The law has been followed, and the strong live on. I soar silently through the night, the moonlight pale and clear on the world. I pass back into the shadow of the trees, gliding back home to my soon-to-be-hatched brood. A shrill cry echoes through the air, I can feel the vibrations, hear its tune. It is a cry of victory in finding a good meal. Its vibrant tone reawakens my mind to the concept that my clutch is never safe without my keen eye watching over them. My wings flap with more force than before, with more urgency in each stroke. My tree appears, but there is something amiss, a feeling, a movement, a sound. A fleeting black shadow approaches the hollow I call home, climbing slowly. Cold realization hits me, akin to a branch in mid-flight. This is no shadow, rather, a predator, with eager lust for the consumption of my brood. Rage washes over me in a boiling hot wave, consuming me in tongues of flame. I drop my catch and streak towards the tree, my feathers catching the wind and propelling faster. Viciously, I slam into the shadow, raking and stabbing with my talons and beak, driven by a fierce, instinctive protectiveness. Midnight’s song plays in my head, an inborn tune that tells me exactly every stab to make. This vicious onslaught is no fight, but a wild, dangerous dance to the song of night, danced by my ancestors. The predator scrabbles desperately on the bark, squealing in pain. Momentarily, I can see its face, two gleaming yellow eyes, framed by a deep black mask. A raccoon, bandits of the dark. Why did I ever leave my nest? I give one last well-aimed stab and the bandit falls to the ground, twisting and wriggling, landing with a puff of dust on the ground below. Stunned, it lies there for a moment, before darting off into the shadows. Victory lifts me into the air, dancing on moonlight. I swoop down and snatch up the mouse I left behind on the leaves, not willing to allow a lowly bandit to ruin my catch. Concerned, I give one last flap of my mighty, speckled wings and soar into the hollow, the musty smell of leaves and bark engulfing me. My eggs are safe, unscathed and whole as ever. All at once, all is silent. In the distance, I hear the stream, singing its song. Footsteps interrupt the lull, and I look out to glimpse a scarlet fox, limping on a front leg, passing by, its tail dragging through the leaves. Beneath me, an egg twitches, stirring the mouse I have set beside me, still warm. I shift around, turning to watch as cracks appear in the thin shells, doorways opening for life. Beaks appear as they thrust themselves into the world, tiny weak chicks, crying out shrilly. My family has arrived. My steely gaze rolls over my chicks. Though they are minute and weak, barely consisting of several
Animals
Call of the Dolphins
INSPIRED BY A TRUE STORY It was just one of those foggy afternoons when, suddenly, my dad’s phone rang. Of course, his phone rings a lot considering he’s a marine biologist, and people call him about sea lions, seals, and whatnot. But this call was different. It came from a local fisherman, fourteen miles off the coast of Northern California. He said he had found a bottlenose dolphin trapped under fishnets and that he didn’t know how long it had been there or how it got there, but he was certain of one thing: without help it was going to die. My dad frowned, drummed his fingers along the countertop, crossed the room, made a few quick calls, got some equipment, and headed for the door. Right then and there, I decided to go with him. “Dad,” I began, “I was wondering if I could… go with you?” He shrugged and pushed out his lower lip. “Should be OK.” I smiled, and together we left the house. We met up with four of my dad’s friends at our boat, The Porpoise. I realized that all of them were dressed for the adventure, while I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Oh well, it was too late to go back, so I just stepped on board, and we started off. We live in Berkeley, so we had to cut across the San Francisco Bay in order to get into the open Pacific. The ride took us under the majestic Golden Gate Bridge, although we could barely see it; it was veiled in mist. As we continued out to sea, I kept hoping to see some sign of the perishing animal. I never like that feeling, when you know somebody or something is dying, and there is nothing you can do to help. I could feel a coldness in my stomach and perspiration running down my neck. I glanced up at my dad’s fellow biologists and saw them talking comfortably. I gotta say, I was envious. I mean, I’m sitting here all queasy and they are chatting away! Everybody looked up when my dad turned off the boat’s motor. I started staring out at the sea, which was as smooth as glass. I was about to ask where the dolphin was, when my dad seemed to read my thoughts. He said, “We are gonna go in silently. We don’t want to make the dolphin anxious.” I liked the way my dad was saying “we.” It made me think that I might be included. His next words confirmed my thoughts. “Your wetsuit is on the boat,” he said, “and I’ve got an extra pair of goggles you could use. Do you wanna come?” I nodded happily and crossed the boat to get changed. Our boat slowly drifted toward a tangled mass of fishnets and buoys. When we were about twenty yards away, my dad, two of his friends, and I slipped into the water. The only exposed part of my body was my face, but still, my whole body got chills when I dunked under. Getting to the fishnets was slow progress. I could have gotten there much faster if I didn’t have a life jacket on; it gave my arms a very limited amount of space, to say the least. It took a while to get to the nets, but let me tell you, it took a whole lot longer to find the dolphin. It was somewhere in what looked like a massive knot. Finally, we found it, and it was in pretty bad shape. The dolphin was almost in a vertical position in the water. Ropes ensnared its entire body. One of the traps was weighing down the animal’s tail fluke. We were all armed with knives, and both my dad and his colleagues had oxygen tanks, meaning they could dive under to free the dolphin’s tail. I had to free its mouth and head. When you’re freeing a dolphin, you’re going to want to be super careful. And when I say “super,” I mean it. If I were to miss any of the ropes and cut the dolphin, it could freak out, thrash around, and maybe hurt us and itself. So it was slow work. Now, I’m up at the surface sawing away at the ropes, and my dad and his friends are down at the tail. Do you think the dolphin was enjoying all this activity? No. It’s slashing its pectoral fin at me and flipping its tail. In fact, it was using all its remaining strength to get us away! And if it didn’t have any more strength left… That thought made me work faster. After half-an-hour’s work, many of the ropes were already loosened or cut away. But that wasn’t enough; I wanted every one of these horrible nets at the bottom of the ocean. The dolphin was free! In another fifteen minutes my wish was granted. The nets slipped down, down into the endless abyss. The dolphin was free! My dad, his two colleagues, and I, swam happily to the boat to celebrate. When we turned back, the dolphin was still there. We waited for ten minutes. Twenty minutes. The dolphin wouldn’t leave. Then I noticed a small gray object, in another set of nets, eight yards from where the dolphin was swimming. I pointed it out to my dad and his eyes widened. Then he smiled at me. “She has a calf!” he exclaimed. That got me and all four of my dad’s friends diving into the water. The mother dolphin reached her calf before us, but surprisingly she let us touch and untangle it. Once it was freed, she nuzzled it. We smiled and swam back to the boat. I climbed aboard and turned around. She’d followed us. She popped her head out of the water and gave a short whistle. It could have only meant one thing. “Thanks.” Kyle Trefny, 11San Francisco, California
A Home for Barney
We chatted together about everything, from baby goats to gardens It was a beautiful spring morning. My irises and daisies were beginning to bloom. The crepe myrtles had put on their finest display, and pink flowers littered my driveway. It was a perfect day in North Carolina. I stepped out of the house and got into my old truck. Slowly, I drove the few miles to the Carl Sandburg home. On the way up the hill, I met one of my fellow workers, Amy. We chatted together about everything, from baby goats to gardens. We reached the goat barn and went through the gate. “I’m so excited, Christy,” Amy told me. “You know Jenny?” I nodded. Jenny was the head worker. “Mmm hmm?” “Well anyway, she sent me an email this morning saying that a few of the goats gave birth last night!” “Great!” I exclaimed. We hurried inside the barn. “Christy, Amy, come over here,” Jenny called. We ran over to her. Jenny was holding Nellie, one of our goats, still. “She’s having trouble with her babies,” she told us solemnly. Amy and I looked at each other. We bent down and struggled with Nellie. An hour later we had a thin baby goat in our laps. “Only one?” Amy asked. “That’s unusual.” Jenny gently took the kid from me and examined it. “It’s very weak and sickly,” she noted. “He needs food.” She tried to urge Nellie to nurse her child. The goat turned around and refused to. “She’s shunning her baby because he’s so sick!” I cried in despair. “We’ll have to bottle-feed him,” Amy realized. “Christy, I’m putting you in charge of this little guy,” Jenny said. She handed me the goat. “But… but,” I stammered. “I’ve got to go check on the other goats. Come on, Amy.” Amy gave the kid one last glance before following Jenny out of the barn. I gently adjusted the little fellow and coaxed the nipple of a bottle into his mouth. He finished the milk in a few minutes and then snuggled against me. I smiled and stroked his soft brown back. He had found a new mother. Two weeks passed since the goat’s birth, and he still had never left the barn. He also still remained without a name. Jenny had left him in my responsibility, so I figured that I was supposed to name him. But none of the names I picked for him suited him. I tried Ginger, but he wasn’t fiery. He was calm and dependent. Fuzzy didn’t quite fit him. I asked visitors for ideas and came up with Little, Quiet, Sam, Cinnamon, and Chocolate. One day, as I was trying to think of a name, one of the workers, Marla, came in. I had never been very fond of her, as she wasn’t the brightest creature on earth. She stood leaning against the doorway of the barn. Finally she said, “Barney.” “What?” I looked up. “Barney. Name him Barney. He’s never left the barn, has he? So name him Barney.” She left the doorway and walked outside. I pondered the name. It suited him. He had never left the barn. It wasn’t too big or grand. It was tiny and quiet. Like him. “Barney,” I whispered. “Your name is now officially Barney.” Barney gave something in between a squeal and a whinny. “You like it? Huh? You like it?” I laughed, and rolled over in the hay with Barney on top of me. “What’s goin’ on?” Marla asked. I smiled. “Thanks for the name, Marla,” I said. She shrugged. “Sure.” Although she wouldn’t admit it at the time, I knew that we had both found a new friend. * * * The weeks passed. Marla and I shared the responsibility of taking care of Barney. He became more curious, and once even ventured out of the barn. However, he still remained sickly. Jenny was afraid that when he grew up, he might pass along these sick genes. One day, she told me and Marla, “We’re going to have to neuter him. We can’t risk having a herd of sick goats.” I looked at my feet. “All right.” I couldn’t bear to watch. “You can take a break,” Jenny said, “both of you. You’ve worked so hard. Let’s give you each a week-long break, all right?” We nodded. As we walked to the parking lot, Marla said, “I’m really sorry.” I shook my head. “At least he’ll live,” I said. The week seemed years to me. Every second of the day, I worried about Barney. At night I tossed and turned. On the morning of the seventh day, I rushed over to the barn. Jenny met me. “Where’s Barney?” I gasped, seeing that his usual spot was empty. “I put Kate in charge of him for now.” My heart sank. “Oh.” “Don’t worry,” Jenny reassured me. “You’ll get him back soon. I know that you’re doing great with him. For now I need you to take care of Mocha.” My shoulders sagged. Mocha was a stingy goat, about Barney’s age. She had sprained her ankle a few weeks back, and though it had healed, it still bothered her. She would often stand in the corner and nip anyone who came too close to her. “OK.” I slowly approached Mocha with a handful of grain. I held it out to her. Instead of enjoying this rare treat, she backed away from me and eyed me suspiciously. I sighed. Suddenly I heard a familiar nicker. “Barney!” Kate was holding a squirming Barney in her arms. She brought him to Jenny. “Barney’s impossible,” she said. “He hasn’t been like this all week!” Jenny smiled. “He sees Christy. Kate, how ’bout you take care of Mocha and Christy takes care of Barney?” Relieved, Kate handed Barney over to me. I hugged him to my chest. “You’ve been such a good mother to Barney,” Jenny said. I glowed. “Thank you.” Jenny continued. “You’ll soon be saying goodbye to
