Wood thrush returned today. I heard them in the dreary damp behind the house, maybe they were waiting for the sun to return and they just gave up. Now I wonder if the one that banged into my studio door will make it back.
My wounded thrush blinked and panted much like a running back hit by Green Bay linebacker Clay Matthews. Its feet clinched. A death grip? I hoped 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."
But I now wonder seven months later, did it return?
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