the bird

I was surprised to see the wounded bird on the edge of my deck. Clearly, she hadn’t struck the window. I watched for few minutes but she didn’t move. Her eyes never left me.
Her feathers mauled as though a larger predator had carelessly dropped her. One wing hung at an awkward angle.
I approached her speaking softly. Better judgment told me to leave her alone. Another voice urge to me to try. Very gently and lifted her up in my hand—she allowed me.
A small box filled with a towel and shredded paper became her safe house.
Over time, she trusted me to bring food and water. She even allowed me to feed her tiny amounts. But her open mouth was silent.
Several times a day and even through the night I got up to care for the wounded bird.
My routine changed to include my new charge.
Then one day she was standing on both legs. She hopped about her enclosure and began to eat in her own. The feathers smoothed. The wing straightened.
Eventually she found her voice and sang sweetly in the morning. She allowed me to carry her around perched on my finger. Her song was magical and her recovery heartening.
She would fly around the house but always return to her safe place.
One day, I opened the patio door and showed her the world. She chirped and cocked her head and then was gone.
She struggled at first and then I saw her soar.

The end

wounded


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