I was startled out of my placid daydreams, one spring
morning, as the bedroom window pane rattled under a jarring thud.
What
the HECK was that!?
I’d
actually heard that kind of thud before, but usually out in the great, wide
countryside where smooth panes of glass reflect blue skies and groves of trees.
Here, in this quiet urban neighborhood, the only thing in the glass was the
next house over. I only half-believed it could be what it sounded like.
Nevertheless,
I gingerly pulled the drapes to the side and looked the pane up and down.
There, right in the middle, stuck a tell-tale tuft of feathers splayed out like
a wee explosion frozen at its climax. I choked.
I
dropped whatever I was doing and sprinted down the hallway and out the back
door. As I rounded the corner, I fully expected to see either a departed member
of the avian clan, or nothing at all. Probably nothing at all. Most likely the
bird had simply hit its head, shook it off, and long since flown away. It could
be five blocks from here, by now, I thought.
My eyes
quickly scoured the shaggy green grass, and came to rest on a little brown lump
beneath the window and to one side. It was perfectly still.
Aw. So
the little creature hadn’t made it.
But
when I got close, I gasped. It was standing upright, eyes wide open.
“Hello,
there.”
The wee
House Sparrow jerked its head ever so slightly at the sound of my voice. It
made no attempt to move or to escape me, but it was alive.
“Are
you okay, little guy? Are you alright?”
Not, of
course, that I expected the bird to reply. I just find that, when encountering
wildlife, a gentle tone tends to help both of us relax. The fellow needed no
calming down, however, as he (Or she. I’m not sure.) sat in the cool grass
almost completely motionless. I pushed the long blades aside and examined him
as closely as I possibly could. Both wings folded over his back exactly where
they belonged when they weren’t in use. Both little gray-colored legs were
perfectly leg-shaped. No hint of fractures here. And the tiny jerks of the head
suggested the bird’s neck and spine remained intact.
Yet he
just stood there.
I went
back inside and mentioned the incident to my family. Clearly he had whacked his
head a good one, and was feeling a bit stunned.
“Not a
thing we can do about it,” I was told, “If he doesn’t make it, he doesn’t make
it. If he survives, he’ll take care of himself.”
Well,
true. But, honestly, how often would I ever have the opportunity to study one
of these little birds close up – and alive?
I went
back outside and crouched near the little guy. I studied the shiny eyes and
short, stubby bill. I watched the bits of down fluttering in the slight breeze.
I admired the beautiful feather pattern and deep burgundy hues woven
throughout. These ordinary, all too common little brown birds, which are
usually just little streaks and dashes, suddenly became quite beautiful and
stately. A small but magnificent wonder
of the natural world.
Gently
-- ever, ever so gently – I dared to stroke his wee head with just the tip of
my finger. Maybe I shouldn’t have. This was a wild creature, after all. But I
just wanted to see what a live bird feels like.
He was
so very soft. Just like a kitten. And so delicate. Even the light stroke of my
finger caused him to bob slightly. If this were anywhere but a private yard,
he’d have been in dire danger sitting there in the grass. No wonder Mother
Nature gave some of her daintiest creations wings!
I
wanted to sit there all day and spend time with my little friend, but I had to
step back inside for a minute for some reason. I wasn’t gone very long. Just a
few minutes.
But
when I came back out to see my bird again, nothing remained but a little
sparrow sized cup in the grass.
I
looked up at the warm, blue sky, and somewhere, not far off, I could hear a
sparrow singing gleefully.
My little bird friend siting the grass waiting for his head to stop spinning.
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