The second day the eggs hatched. The two adults, one shiny blue, one green, took turns to enter the box, from which frantic peeping could be heard. Both parents were prepared to dive-bomb us if we came near; otherwise they gave no sign of being disturbed, and from the windows we were free to observe their coming and going. When both were away, I sneaked out with the flashlight. Naked pink mice with huge beaks, the nestlings took me for their mother and instantly started begging.

I sang to Maddy and lowered her kicking legs into the shallows, where she gripped the sand with her fists and feet. Temporarily I suppressed in myself what powers of perception Maddy did not yet have. The shining bowl of the lake had little definition for her, and so it had little definition for me. When she fell into her dream, her lips slick with my milk, I felt the presence of someone, half admirer, half guardian, who was watching me take care of my baby, and at the same time watching the tree swallows enter the hole in the box and do what they were driven to do there.

On the third day, I left Maddy sleeping and strolled out to the terrace in my bathrobe to check on the family. The lake glittered between the trees. All was quiet. The nestlings must have been asleep too. There was no need for a flashlight, as morning sun poured down from behind the house. I leaned over to get a closer look. Air and light had been sucked from the box. Inside, twitching slowly, coiled around itself and completely filling the space, was a thick, black rat snake.

Maddy

7

My grandfather came up with the idea. Or maybe I did. He said it first, anyway, but I was the one who led him there. We had gone to Meridian Hill Park, the best place near their house to walk the dog. I found it hard to climb the hill, so we drove to the entrance at the top of the park. Barney the golden retriever was straining on the leash. But first we had to pay a visit to the fountain, which in fact is more like a controlled waterfall. Thirteen shallow pools drop down to a huge one at the end made of old-fashioned stonework and arches in the style of an Italian villa. The water fills one pool, then spills into the next until some hidden system—Grandpa explained it to me once—pumps it back to the top.

When we got to the overlook, chambers of dingy concrete stared up at the sky. Nothing moved. This was its winter look. Funny how a thing like running water can be so important. Without running water the apartment building at the end seemed to be forcing its ugly way into the park.