thrush aid and comfort

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For a naturalist, spending time indoors can be tantamount to torture. Because we know that just outside our brick and mortar something wondrous, tragic or perhaps even miraculous is happening. That is what drives us to be on the road less taken. We have no virtual world, our world is real. 

An hour ago I was outside helping my neighbor Dr. Gary move large chunks of a chestnut oak that did not survive the remnants of Hurricane Irma that passed through Monday night. The tree was old and huge, standing strong through dozens of storms but this one was its Waterloo. It is fortunate for us that his grown son Adam is a professional competitive lumberjack.

Returning home, walking up the driveway, I spooked a wood thrush that was forging the damp detritus to my right. It flew in front of me but smacked into my glass studio doors. Only a glancing blow yet still it fell to the asphalt before me twitching. 

I have picked up many birds after ramming into windows. I curse the glass and our need for it. Sometimes the damaged passerines are merely knocked loopy, sometimes they have broken necks. I always fear the latter but pray for the former as I hoped for this bird, giving it comfort and whispering sweet affirmations."You're OK, baby," "All is well," "I'm here for you." Things like that as I gently stroked its spotted breast. Its hard breathing and heartbeat clearly noticeable. 

The wood thrush is my favorite songbird that lives in the dense woods behind my house but the songster is only here in summer. Migration is well underway and I am somewhat surprised that this one is still even here. They spend their winters in lowland tropical forests in Central America but sadly, their population is on the decline so we can ill afford to lose even one. 

My wounded thrush blinked and panted much like a running back hit by Green Bay linebacker Clay Matthews. Its feet clinched. A death grip? Let's hope not. But wait, it moved its head right and left indicating its neck was not broken. It only needed another living being—that would be me—bringing aid and comfort, muttering "You're not alone." I have done this sort of thing before only to have the poor songbird die in my hand, but this care-giving act felt more positive. Its whacked senses slowly began to return.  

In time, it hopped up, standing on my outstretched palm, looked around as if to say, "I am thrush. I bid you adieu. I have miles to go before I sleep. Miles to go."

   

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