Bird Watching

Walking home on Thursday I saw something fall from the 3-story apartment building to my left. I thought maybe workers were replacing the roof or cleaning the gutters, but as I got closer, I saw a white-bellied bird laying on its back, desperately trying to right itself. I had gloves on, so I went over without hesitation, turned her over, cupped her in my palm, and brought her close to me. Suddenly my day had direction. I didn’t know how to care for her, but I knew I would.

When the two of us got home, we sat for a long time on our porch. Her in my hand, nestled up against my jacket, the sun keeping us both warm. I was waiting for her to tell me if she would live or die but she was in no hurry. My warm hand was good enough. Safe enough. Comfortable enough to stay for a while.

While the two of us sat there, I called my friend Kirsti knowing she would know what to do. Keep her warm, she said, speak softly. Chances are she’ll live. She was right. The bird eventually came around. I’d taken her inside for a while, had built her a little nest with a screen on top, and waited for her eyes to stay open. When she seemed ready, I took her back outside, still marveling at the fact that she was sitting in my hand. When I bent over to put her down, she hopped off, jumped from one step to another, tested her wings, then hid under a bush before I went inside for something to drink. When I came back a minute later, she was gone. I looked everywhere, but never saw her again.

The next day, I showed my friend Jay the pictures I’d taken of her. He told me she was a Swainson’s Thrush. I love their songs, he told me, they’re my favorite birds. Yesterday, walking by the meadows on Campus Way, I saw another one, a larger one, flitting from branch to branch on a nearby bush. I stood watching, listening, grateful to hear her sing.