A bird in the hand

By Mary Sharry
For the song of the bird and the hum of the bee; heavenly father I thank thee. This was the prayer my mother suggested I use when I was frightened of such things — birds and bees, although there are no bees in this story.

The birds, sparrows, congregated in the forsythia near our house, and on my way to school it seemed they waited for me. They flew out as I passed by. The flutter of their wings scared me. If the prayer didn’t work, my mother said, I might try jumping up and down, waving my arms and hollering as I neared the bushes. That would scare them away. I did all of those things, but the birds still seemed to fly out at me. What a relief after passing beyond all that fluttering!
In spite of my fear, I really did love the birds. By their calls and songs, I could identify robin, oriole, cardinal, mourning dove, goldfinch, chickadee chipping sparrow, even the song sparrow. “Pretty good for a seven-year-old,” my father said. He had given me an Audubon Bird guide. I learned a bit about migration and bird habitat, but, I’d think, “if only they didn’t flutter so.”

Years later whenever a bird flew into a windowpane at my home, I would ask a family member to go outdoors, pick up the poor bird, and attempt to bring life back into its limp body. I’d discovered that sometimes a bird will be stunned by such a blow and that if picked up, warmed and soothed a bit, will revive and fly off. Squeamish at the thought of fluttering wings, I simply did not want to be the one to pick up the bird.

Recently, one cool and misty morning, as I left the Empire post office I looked across the street, and noticed the lunch sign posted in the window of the Friendly Tavern. Soup sounded good, so I thought I’d go over there to see what the soup was for the day. As I crossed the street I saw a small dark object on the sidewalk. Frank, the owner of the restaurant, and an employee had stepped outside to examine this thing — a bird. It seemed lifeless.

“It hit the window,” Frank said.

“If someone would pick it up,” I boldly proclaimed, perhaps it could be revived.
A woman passing by stopped to see what had happened.

“It’s a catbird,” I noted, and asked her if she would pick it up.

“Possibly it will revive.”

She did so and set the bird, which had opened its eyes, upright upon the sidewalk.

“There!” she said. Her task well done, she went on her way.

The bird did not move, though, and settled back down into its very weakened state — head drooping, lifeless, it seemed. This did not look good.
I don’t know what came over me, but suddenly fearless I picked up the bird. Its soft body felt warm in my cupped hands. The people from the tavern returned to their work. I carried the bird across the street to a lawn where there were tall grasses and various plantings — safe from glass windows and traffic, but when I placed it onto the ground it again fell forward, its head resting on the lawn, its hind end pointing upward. Once again I picked it up and cupped it in my hand. I marveled at how a catbird fits neatly into the palm of the hand — its head protrudes from one side, its gray tail feathers from the other. The bird’s wings were tucked close to its body. Its curved beak was slightly parted; its eyes were closed.

A catbird is a wonderful imitator of many different bird songs, animal sounds, even machinery. It calls forth a litany of phrases in single file; there is no repetition of mimicked calls as with the brown thrasher, which calls twice, or the mocking bird, which makes a three-fold repetition of calls. I love to hear a catbird carry on a long-winded monologue interspersed with catlike mews, hence its name.

Smaller than a robin, larger than a song sparrow, slender, and of the softest gray hue, softness could be the bird’s name — soft and plush and sweet. The feathers beneath its tail, the coverts, are a pretty chestnut brown. The catbird has a dark charcoal-colored cap and dark shining eyes.

This bird’s eyes remained closed. I stroked it and, while holding it in my palm, lifted my hand up and down in an attempt to gain a response. The bird only seemed to want to sleep. Its head was erect and its body didn’t appear maimed, so I felt it must have been badly stunned from flying into the window.
Since its beak was partly open, I thought that perhaps some water would be important. I placed the catbird back onto the ground and went over to the Friendly for a little water in a Styrofoam cup. Picking the bird up, I held the water under its bill. It seemed to take in a small amount, but then closed it eyes again. I was becoming so fond of this small creature in my hand. Dare I take it home? No. We have a cat in our house. What would I do if the bird suddenly decided to fly while indoors? Patience, I thought.

More time passed and I continued to cup the bird in my hand and stroke it. For such a damp and chilly day, the bird felt remarkably warm.

Maybe it was time to encourage this little birdie a bit more vigorously. A low branch on a young walnut tree nearby seemed like a good roosting place. I positioned the branch under the bird’s belly and tried to work open the clutched talons. They remained tightly folded.

Eventually one foot opened and wrapped around the branch, and then the other foot. The bird remained upright. Progress! After a time I gently lifted the tree branch up and down in an attempt to activate a sense of flight to the bird. Occasionally the eyes would open. This, too, was encouraging. I took the right wing and extended it outward; it retracted, so did the left wing. The wings seemed undamaged, as if the bird could fly.

No doctor am I, but I’d surmise this bird had a bad concussion. Time is a healer, so I stayed with the bird, occasionally taking it off the branch, stroking it, telling it how beautiful it was, murmuring encouragement. I think those words helped. Soon I placed it on the ground and it blinked, and moved its head, and when I attempted to pick it up it fluttered and scooted itself upward for a few feet and then landed again on the ground. Then it opened its wings and lifted about three feet into the air and flew straight toward the street and into the path of an oncoming pickup truck. The truck moved on and there in the street lay a dark and lifeless small form.

Feeling horribly alone — no one saw what had just happened — I wailed — for the bird, for the effort of reviving it, for its will to fly and then the senselessness of the scene. I ran over to where it lay, and picked it up. It sat upright in my hand, gave a squawk, and flew directly back to the walnut tree.
From the street I watched and decided I could do no more. The bird flew and that was good, and I hadn’t even thought about the flutter of wings other than that I was glad that they did.
For the song of the bird …