Arjun and the Window Bird

Arjun was in the corner of the sofa — his corner, the one with the dent in it — watching a video about a digger.

When it ended, another one started by itself. That is what videos do. They line themselves up so you never have to decide anything, which is very clever of them and not always very kind.

This one was about a different digger. Arjun had already seen it twice.

Out of the very corner of his eye, something moved.

It was outside the window, up in the gutter above the shed. A small brown bird landed there with a twig in its beak — a twig almost as long as the bird itself — and posted it carefully into a gap.

Then it flew off. Then it came back. With another twig.

It was not a big bird. It was smaller than Arjun's hand. But it went off and came back, off and came back, as if it had a list.

Arjun looked at the bird. Then he looked at the digger. Then he looked at the bird again.

And here is the true thing about that moment: he did not want to put the iPad down. Not even slightly. His thumb was already hovering over the next video, because that is what thumbs do.

But there was a small square button at the bottom of the screen with two little lines on it, and Arjun knew exactly what it did.

He pressed pause.

That was the whole brave bit. One press. The digger stopped halfway through lifting a rock, and it did not mind at all.

Arjun put the iPad face down on the cushion and went and knelt on the chair by the window, with his chin on the back of it.

The bird came back eleven times. Arjun counted.

It brought twigs, and then a piece of string, and then something grey and fluffy that might have been a bit of the cat next door. It turned round and round in the gap, pressing everything down with its chest.

"It's building," said Arjun, when Dad came in. "With no hands. It's building a whole house with no hands at all."

Dad knelt on the chair too, which made it creak. They watched together until it got too dark to see.

Then Dad found an old notebook and wrote THE NEST on the front in capital letters, and underneath, in Arjun's handwriting, which is quite large: Day 1. Eleven twigs. One bit of string.

"Tomorrow we'll see how much it's grown," said Dad.

Arjun thought that was an excellent plan, and then he thought of a better one, which was that they should also write down the weather, because a bird probably minds about the weather more than anybody.

Later, at bedtime, Arjun remembered something and sat up straight.

"The digger video is still paused."

"It is," said Dad. "It'll still be paused tomorrow. And the day after. Videos are very patient."

Arjun lay back down and thought about that. The digger would wait forever, and it would still be lifting the same rock.

The bird would have built half a house by breakfast.