Hope is the thing with feathers
A literal shoutout to Emily Dickinson.
I love walking in a gentle spring rain, which I imagine is like walking in a cloud.
On this day, I see something on the road ahead. It looks like a clod of dirt. I get closer. There’s a scattering of feathers and and in their midst a fledgling sparrow, sharp-eyed, breathing. The poor thing is in optimal tire strike position.
Picking up a twig, I prod the bird gently. It flaps awkwardly along the pavement toward the edge of the road, which the rain has rendered a small stream. Using the twig as a perch, I try to lift the bird over the water to the safety of the curb, but instead, it struggles back into the street. There’s a bloody wound on its belly, under one wing, and I realize I have to change my rescue strategy.
A newspaper flyer lies abandoned on the sidewalk, covered in a red plastic bag. I pull out the flyer and put the plastic bag over my hand, remembering my mother’s warnings about birds carrying germs and how if a human touches a lost bird, the other birds will shun it. I lift the fledgling gently, placing it on the grass at the side of the road. Mission accomplished.
I continue walking, and within seconds, I’m ruminating. Wouldn’t instant death by car be a kinder fate than a prolonged death from internal injuries or mauling by a cat? The fledgling is almost certainly doomed.
Which is when I think, almost.
Left alone, the bird’s fate was sealed. On the roadside, death is quite likely, but not totally impossible. With a plastic bag, I moved both bird and that sliver of possibility. I am a ridiculous optimist who can’t promise mercy, but refuses to let go of hope.