Tonight I was at Foothills Park. Thump. At dusk, someone saw a bird fly into a glass pane on the Interpretive Center, lit from inside with artificial light. I walked over, along with a couple other people.
The guy said “It’s not going to make it.” The bird was face down on the concrete, wings partly open, trying to shake off the disorientation. I gently picked up the small Hermit Thrush. Its feathers were soft and fresh. The bird softly panted with parted bill, its eyes half-closed and glazed over. I held it in my palm, and covered its head with my other hand.
Sara emptied the small box that held the flashlights, and thought about something to pad it with. She took off her top layer and put it in the box, and I placed the thrush inside.
The box went on a bench under the branches of a shrub. Sara wanted to stay with the bird instead of going on the hike.
After we returned an hour later, I went straight to Sara who was now in the building, anxious to hear about the bird. She told me that after a while, she had placed it in the duff, but it wasn’t ready so it went back into the box. When it looked more alert, she put it on a shrub, as it grabbed her finger trying to perch. She and Jim moved away and waited on the bench. After a while, some fluttering, and the bird was gone.
Sometimes good things happen.