I’m
no stranger to bird strikes. But I usually see them in the springtime, not in the weeks approaching the fall equinox.
And
just before dawn this morning—in the middle of a deep, sleepy reverie and a long sip of
coffee—the telltale “thwappp!” jarred me, and startled the dog. I lumbered to the door, stepped outside in my pajamas, and froze in place when I saw Little Junco breathing heavily on the
deck just below the kitchen window.
Was he the same guy I’d
seen just yesterday afternoon foraging through the gravel beside the house?
Might he be one of the trio
of juncos who, at the beginning of summer, tended another small junco who had hit
a different window and lay panting for an hour before flying off?
Would he be able to
recover: would he fly off, or die, or would I need to take him to the wildlife
shelter?
Though I know
not to mess with wildlife, my heart took over.
I moved slowly
toward fallen Little Junco. I noticed how crisply beautiful his tail feathers
were. And in that instant I became connected to him, deeply connected—in some inexplicable way I
can only feel.
I righted him from his upside down sprawl to his feet. I tenderly stroked his
feathers with one, then two, fingers. My doing so slowed the pace of his
heaving. I spoke words of comfort in whispers to him.
I backed away
and watched, waiting.
For the next small
while I drifted between the indoor coffee cup and the junco on the chilly deck.
Suddenly I saw
the neighbor’s cat moving toward our deck; he and I are close and affectionate,
and he lies purring on my shoulder several times a day. But I had just heard
the tale of his most recent bird conquest—strewn through the house where he
lives—and I was determined to use my human dominance to run interference
between him and Little Junco. Thankfully, I was able to cash in on my
relationship with the cat: he saw me at the door and came running for cuddles, oblivious
to the bird just four feet away who he passed as he rushed toward me.
But Little Junco—whose
breathing had restored to normal, whose eyes had reopened, whose body had regained
a normal perched posture—definitely
saw the cat. And he reared up with everything he had and off he flew—low and
away to the north.
My research into
bird strikes has taught me that internal injuries might soon claim the life of Little
Junco—whose trembling body quieted under the stroke of human fingers across his
silky feathers.
It was the
briefest moment of encounter … the duration of half a cup of coffee on one
morning of my decades-long life. I’m clear that Little Junco may well not
return to me, that even if he did we would likely not recognize one
another.
But it is a series of small moments, tiny decisions, and phenomenal contact that I will treasure forevermore.
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| ... Little Junco's gorgeous feathers ... |
All blog images created & photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted. Please circulate images with photo credit: "©2017 JenniferJWilhoit/TEALarbor stories. AllRightsReserved."
