delight (saturday)

On Friday I left work later than usual, and the door to the north of the building was already locked. I reluctantly went to the south door instead. It was a cold night, not the air but the speed of the wind. Looking down as I left the building, I saw what looked like a small brown leaf. When I walked toward it, it ran away from me. It was a bird little larger than the size of a silver dollar, fully fledged but for some reason unable to fly.

There are no trees near that door, and no visible nest it could have fallen from. It seemed confused and I was scared that someone would step on it, so I picked it up. It’s remarkably easy to catch a running bird. It perched on one finger and I closed my other hand around it, leaving an opening for its head. It peered out, shook itself slightly until its feathers puffed up, then tucked its head under its wing and slept.

Faced with this, a bird that sleeps in the hand, I couldn’t help myself. I walked carefully up the block and a half to the cigar store that I always hang out in during breaks, and asked one of the Yemenis who works there to give me a box. He and his coworker took a look at the bird and said “we used to eat those in Yemen.” But they agreed that this one was too small to eat and gave me a box, lined with crumpled paper towels. The bird went into the box without complaint and immediately went back to sleep.

A friend looked up a wildlife rehabilitation expert online and I called for advice. Going to sleep immediately is not a good sign, he said. “Birds under stress drown easily, so you shouldn’t give it any water. Don’t feed it, either. Just leave it in the box, because a cage would hurt its wings if it becomes agitated, and keep it someplace warm until tomorrow.” So I took the bird into the subway, where it ignored the squealing of the wheels and announcements and pinging, a little ball of brown and gray fluff with tiny fractal patterns on its neck where the feathers shifted over each other, head tucked firmly under wing.

When I got back to the house, after a little dinner, I took the bird to my room. I felt exhausted but strangely content, knowing that there was a wild animal sharing that warm, dark space with me. I slept very early.

In the early morning the lightening sky woke me. It was 6:30. The light reminded me that this is the hour that the birds begin singing. The cigar box on the floor by the radiator was silent. But when I opened it a pair of brilliant eyes, like marbles, like drops of black oil, were staring up at me. I closed the box quickly and carried it up to the roof.

Outside the air was much warmer than it had been on Friday. I lifted the lid again and the bird hopped out of the box onto my hand. It sat on my finger, looking at me, for a long moment; not more than five seconds, but enough for me to feel a sharp sting of regret that I could not keep it one more day, one more second.

And then it flew away into the blue dawn sky.







I think it was a winter wren.