Earlier this summer I watched a mother robin fly again and again to her nest of baby birds balanced on the down spout of my neighbor’s house. From an upstairs window I could look down and see the little beaks open for the bugs and worms. When they started to crowd each other and almost tumble out of the nest, they were ready to fly. Over the course of a day, two birds left the nest. The last one was smaller than the others, and the mother returned to the nest many times to continue nourishing her little bird. And then a few days later, it was gone. (With regard to the story below, I now know that we should not rescue wildlife — but there are professionals who know what to do.)
The baby bird cheeped its panic,
and we stood under the maple
tree, afraid to pick it up, but unable
to walk away. Let’s help it, my dad said,
and that lesson of compassion was
far greater than the later knowledge
of the will of nature. We made a
bed in a shoebox, lined with a
heating pad and towel. Dad fed it
thin rice cereal with an eye-dropper,
all of us gathered around him
holding the small bird tenderly
in his hand, coaxing it to open its beak.
Life was tenuous for the tiny bird,
with paper-thin skin and wobbly head.
We did not know if it would live, but
we hoped, and kept watch.
Years later, I watched the nurse help
Dad stand up to use the bathroom.
The hospital gown revealed his
backside, thin and frail.
I remembered our little bird,
how it did get stronger, and
how one day we stood under
the maple and let it go, free.