Thirty-Four Days, After: The Littlest Woodpecker
I see him sitting there as evening fades into darkness. The little woodpecker perched on my patio chair. I placed him there thirty minutes ago after I saved him from my two cats. He’s clearly in shock, his feathers ruffling in the wind of the swiftly passing clouds. I peek out every few minutes to check on him.
Still sitting.
After I found him, I ran across the lifeless body of his sibling. He did not survive, and now his crumpled feathered self lies undisturbed in the dry dust of my yard. I can still see him there, on the ground near the heat withered grass, and it makes my heart hurt. I need to find a place to lay him to rest, far from the cats.
Mom and Dad are flittering here and there. It’s a hard place to raise babies. They had built a nest in the light fixture on my front porch. There are no trees here on the hill. Bad place for baby birds to learn to fly.
When I let the two cats out today, I looked about for any babies. Assumed they had flown off … finally. All week I have been bringing the cats frantically in whenever a youngster begins his or her maiden flight. One after the other tries it wings. I guess this is the last one.
Still sitting.
This is the way it is in when you live in the country. Live or die, there is rarely mercy here. It is the nature of birds to fly. It is the nature of cats to chase birds. A bad combination — but natural. (But then, even the cats have those lurking in the brush ready to pounce on them.)
He’s still there. Eyes closed.
I hope his mom and dad will coax him off the chair and back into their warm nest in the light fixture. They usually round the youngsters up every evening. Taking care of their young … it’s what parents do. I know they see the littlest one unmoving on the ground as the sky fades to pink, then the blue of night.
Still sitting. But he seems calmer.
I’ve must have washed my hands four or five times after placing him on the back of the chair. They still feel dirty … more guilt than actual dirt. I wished I’d tried harder to protect him. To give him a better chance. To spare him this indignity of a violent attack upon his delicate, helpless self. I find comfort in his courage — he fought to escape the best he could. He’s a fighter, that one, I tell myself.
I glance out the window again at the chair.
He’s gone.
I guess his parents finally lured him up into safety. I look about quickly to make sure he’s really gone, and give a sigh of relief. I wipe the hair out of my eyes. Or is it tears?
I’m glad he’s safe now. Tomorrow, I will be more careful, I promise him. Tomorrow.
Thirty-four days after, and my heart has not healed … we have not healed. I find every life precious now. Even the littlest woodpecker.
#UvaldeStrong #Keepfightingnevergiveup
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