It’s Sunday, Mother’s Day, and sunny. I’ve just cleaned and filled the hummingbird feeder and I’m hanging it on its hook on the deck when, high above me in the branches of the mighty cottonwood tree, I hear a familiar lilting birdsong.
I thrill with delight; the Baltimore Oriole has returned. I gaze upwards searching in the newly leafing branches, and there! I see a flash of orange and black flight. And again, his cadence. Such pure, clear notes—piercing the cool morning air, quickening my heart.
All day long I delight each time I hear his liquid song, each time I spy that flash of color.
The next morning at daybreak, I crack open the window at the head of my bed, in spite of the unseasonable cold, to hear him herald the dawn. It’s comforting to hear, to feel something so familiar and fresh in the midst of these months of turmoil, stress and Coronavirus uncertainty. My whole body relaxes and I drift back to sleep for a bit.
Later, I’m at my desk working on computer stuff when I’m startled by a loud bang on the window. Oh no—it’s the unmistakable sound of a bird hitting the glass. My heart clutches. I go to the window and look and, damn, there on the roof is a crumpled mess of black and orange feathers. Opening the window, taking out the screen I see if I can reach him. Is he dead or just stunned? I can’t tell and I can’t reach him. I try to climb out the window but I’m no longer that agile.
I pull the weather stripping from the upper porch door, go outside, and only hesitate a moment before climbing out on to the roof. I know I probably shouldn’t, but I tell myself I’ll just be careful.
My heart lifts as I see that he is still breathing, panting through his partly open beak, his little body in disarray. Gently I scoop him into my hand; a small clawed foot grasps one of my fingers. He flutters a bit and I open my hand to see if he wants to fly, but he is clearly too stunned for that. I cry a little for his hurt.
Inside again, I find a small box and place him in it with a twig that he willingly perches on. I’m relieved to see that his feathers are composed now, he’s closed his beak, his breathing is regular, and his eyes are bright. I marvel to see, close up, his black, orange and gold beauty. I sing to him a small prayer of healing, lightly close the box, poke some air holes around the top and leave him be to rest in quiet and darkness.
I go back to my work, but now I’m listening for any noise or movement from the little box in the corner. Every half hour or so I peek in and I’m happy to see he’s still upright and clinging to the branch; He’s tucked his head under a wing and is sleeping.
A few hours pass, it’s mid-afternoon and time for my nap. Before I go to lie down I check the box and, this time, he stirs when I open the top, tilting his head to fix on me with a shiny black eye. So, I go outside, open the box and set it on the railing in the sunlight hoping he will fly away. But he just sits there, blinking.
I take him from the box, he clutches my finger and I offer him to the wind and sun. The breeze ruffles his feathers and he tilts his head this way and that, listening, sensing. Two minutes… Five minutes… I wait. And then, he lifts into the wind and flies to the cottonwood branches above and my hearts lifts in joy with him.
*
It’s been a few days now and, sadly, I haven’t heard him singing. Is he gone? Did he die after all? I don’t know. But still I wait, listening, hoping to thrill at his song again.
Ah, human me—such ups and downs of delight and despair, and such a privilege to feel so much.
