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Somehow they know that
sunflower seeds and raisin bits are sprinkled beneath the quince tree
just past suppertime. And that night was no different.
They came for a late picnic -- the same two cardinals, male and female,
ready to feast. It seemed they made a game each night of pretending
I wasn't there watching at the window.
But this feast was different. Two younger birds joined them, both
females I think, pecking the earth for fruit and seed.
With bellies full, all flew away but one -- a chubby little critter
with ruffled feathers. I grabbed the black binoculars and squeezed
them into focus. Beneath the lenses, my mouth gave way to a quick
sigh. The young bird had an injured right wing.
A good friend of mine once said that an 11th commandment should have
been written for people like me: "Thou shalt not mess with Mother
Nature."
And most of the time I don't. But something about an injured animal
muddles my senses.
Outside, I found the tiny bird fluttering around the lilac bush like
the lost child, her wing torn, her flesh scored and the small wound
still wet. Disregarding unwritten commandments, a mother's heart kicked
into gear.
I've seen well-fed, fat cats prowling the neighborhood searching for
more food when the moon emerges round and orange. Nonetheless, the
bird was none too thankful for its rescue.
Before long, she was gently tucked in a rusty hamster cage, lined
with grass clippings and small limbs from the lilac bush.
I dabbed the open wound near her wing with micirocome, which blended
with the crimson spots on her gray breast. Her right wing was hushed
with a fine mesh sling.
Still the little bird wouldn't eat. She wouldn't sleep and she wouldn't
drink tap water from an old tin cup that once measured out flour for
my grandma's buttermilk biscuits.
Micirocrome had stained her feathers. Blood had stained her spirit
and something out there had snuffed her song. I didn't know what.
But it was past midnight and even the crickets were silent as I bedded
the bird on the front porch and myself on the sofa with one ear to
the screen door. The mournful chirping pleas of an innocent prisoner
kept me awake most of the night.
Pity the poor cat who came by uninvited.
At some point, I gave in to sleep, purposely not giving the bird a
name.
Come morning, I had to decide whether to try nursing the bird back
to nature myself or taking her to the vet. That decision was made
for me when I heard a clear ringing whistle on the front porch. Another
young bird, probably the sibling, was perched on top of the cage chirping
away.
The vet said the wound would soon heal with first aid cream, "nothing
too greasy," and the wing would also heal if it was set right.
He showed me how. But like any bad injury, he warned the bird would
have a very slim chance of ever flying again.
I opted for that slim chance, believing in my heart that she'd beat
the odds and fly off to meet her family in a few days, just about
suppertime.
After putting the bird back on the front porch, I headed to the drug
store for cream to soothe its wound.
When I returned, the bird was dead -- one rice-like claw clinging
desperately to the side of the cage where she pushed her way towards
death.
My son Jayson, who is 18, turned the earth with a soft heart and buried
the bird in a bright, red cloth.
Come suppertime, I sprinkled sunflower seeds and raisin bits beneath
the quince tree. They came for a late picnic. The male, female, and
the fluffy little critter with crimson spots blended into its gray
plumage.
Their black beady eyes showed no grief. It seemed that only I had
the hard time accepting the cardinal's death.
There is much to learn from nature, beginning with the secret of balancing
heart and survival.
The cardinals feasted till their bellies were full. Then, with the
whistling rhapsody of life, they took flight.
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