October 11, 2011

Autumn rain. I ran onto the porch after a ringing bang on the picture window, and saw that a ovenbird lay there stunned. I picked him up in my hands, and held in for a long time. He was very beautiful, his markings as if laid on by a painter, his back a curious dark green/russet, however, that paint could not hope to duplicate. He was very warm, and his heart beat furiously against my palms. When I opened my hands, he could stand well enough, but showed no desire to fly. After holding him for about an hour, a worried that I was somehow impeding his recovery, so I set him on top of the desk, so he’d be out of reach of anything else that might invade the porch tonight. He was standing, his eyes wide open, his wings intact so far as I could tell. I made maybe too much of him, hanging my hope for the future on the possibility that he might launch into the air recovered while I was watching. This did not happen, so I eased the hope over on his being gone in the morning, and my being able to imagine, anyway, that everything was all right. If only this one thing can happen, if I can have this one miracle, everything will be all right. I caught myself thinking, “if anybody but me had picked you up, you might have a chance.” Whatever spirits still have mercy in this world, I put my ovenbird in your hands. The night is dark and cold.