A Winged Story

Sometimes the finches that play in the trees beyond my office window mistake the glass for air and knock their heads, and always I worry. I get up to see if the banged-up bird is okay; usually, thankfully, it is.

But today the finch that knocked hard into the window pane did not get up from the deck, where it had landed, and my heart sunk. It flipped itself to its feet, but its right wing had been made crooked with the collision. I crouched near and spoke encouraging words. I wished I knew something about splinting a wing, or someone who would know what to do.

Every five minutes I rose from my desk, walked to the door, and checked on the bird, which had closed its eyes and was taking shallow breaths and summoning, it seemed to me, some kind of strength. But then—just now—when I opened the door, the little green-gold finch was gone. It wasn't on the lawn, it wasn't farther down the deck. It must have found a way to fly.

Whatever else happens today, there was this.