The finch at my window (snapped moments ago)

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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.

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No Road Alone

I mean for there to be no melodrama, and so I begin this post like this: I am practically fine. But for the past two weeks, I've been taking the sorts of tests one takes to prove or disprove fine.

I'm not dwelling on that. I'm dwelling on this: The world is gooded through. Yes, I'm watching the news. I'm worrying out loud. I grow impatient for solutions, too. I bump up across all varieties of raw, of wrong, of unjust, of incalcuable; I feel myself sink into trenches of despair. But I am rocked and rescued by the good that nonetheless prevails. By people who do their jobs well, and do them humanely (barium, they say, is like an extended pina colada; try to remember your first kiss, they say, when your anxiety seems to stop your blood from flowing). By friends who send funny and loving emails. By bloggers who couldn't even begin to know how valued they are. By a son sending all hieroglyphic form of the famed 160-character text message.

Not to mention a husband who stopped one day beneath the dogwood tree outside my office and noticed that the finch had supped on every last skinny black seed. He reached up and took the feeder down. He filled it with new seed. He stretched and slid the feeder back into place, like he was ornamenting a Christmas tree. He went on his way, then, my husband did. And the birds returned in force.

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Finch on the First Day of Fall

The birds have returned, and yesterday they came in force, keeping me company while I waited for news. I have recorded their story here, their golded breasts and evaporative wings.

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