Teaching as the worm turns

The baby robins outside my window have reached the point where they respond to any cheep or chirp or bird-like sound by raising wobbly heads as far as they can above the nest and waiting for Mama to drop in a juicy morsel of worm or grub, and if Mama's not there, they keep those beaks wide open anyway just in case. Little eating machines is what they are, tiny bundles of fluff driven entirely by appetite, their mouths open so wide they couldn't scream Feed me! for love or money, but their body language is pretty clear: Feed me is all they know.
 
Meanwhile, on my side of the window, I'm dangling juicy morsels of poetry over the heads of my students and hoping they'll jump up and bite. They mostly keep their video feeds muted (because who wants to be on camera at 8 a.m.?) but I like to imagine that they're hungrily grabbing for every bit of literary meaning that wafts past, raising wobbly heads above their nests to reach for the next delicious line. 

But probably I'm delusional. After a month of socially distant teaching and learning, I detect a certain lassitude, a pronounced lack of eagerness to engage with literature. I think we're all just worn out. It's true that the early bird gets the worm, but do you know what the early bird does after getting that worm? It goes right back out and gets another one, and then another, all day long, one worm after another dangled over the mouths of demanding chicks who never even say thanks. 

One of these days, though, they'll grow strong enough to leave the nest and face the cruel world on their own strength. That's why the adult robin keeps bringing more grubs and worms and it's why I keep dangling juicy morsels of meaning in front of my students: feed them today so they can feed themselves tomorrow.