Noel, my cat, brought me a small bird
injured but not yet dead.
He let it go at my feet as I said, “Oh no … no, no.”
I picked it up quickly and
holding it gently, tried to determine how injured it was.
It lay still, and I thought it was dead.
I stroked its feathers just above its beak
softly.
As I did, my thoughts reached back,
unbidden,
alighting on the wreckage of land under construction:

Farmland.
Once green with crops in summer,
and gold in autumn, remnant stalks and leaves turned gold with harvest,
dug up for basements and roads, trenched for water and sewer lines,
scored as with razor blades, mounds of dirt beside
bits of grass escaping
weeds exhilirating
and wildflowers exploding,
glinting at us in the sun,
waving to us in the wind, oblivious that the terrain on which they live
nameless, temporary, man-made mountains and valleys,
rocky, craggy slopes, leading from one to the other
littered with asbestos tiles, mildewed siding,
shattered PVC roots, broken bones piercing upward
bolts and nuts and drywall screws spewed about
festering …
were once alfalfa, oat, and wheat fields, now rended
treelines torn, destroyed.

I say to the little bird,
”It’s all right, my little one. Shhhhhhhh, now, it’s allright.”
Her feet are curled, one dangling slightly over the edge of my hand.
I nudge it onto my palm and place my other hand over her as cover,
holding in the warmth.
I cannot tell if her eye is open or closed.

I sit on a stone bright with a thin layer of moss, under the yew,
still talking to her.
She flutters
suddenly awake
and half launches, half falls from my hand to the ground, crying out.
But she cannot coordinate her legs and her wings, and so she collapses sideways,
feathers splayed to reveal elegantly beautiful grey-blue flight feathers and white accents underneath

I gather her up gently before Noel can notice the movement at ground level
whispering, “Do not be afraid,” as she flutters again.

Her breath comes visibly, now, her beak open
and also her eyes.
I shield her from the outside, hoping she will be less afraid,
and I try to project safety, love ….
motherliness?
I am not sure what would comfort her, could comfort her.
Her chest rises and descends.
I feel it through my hands, and my palm is warm with her warmth.

“Where is your nest? Where is your mother?
”Where can I place you so that you will feel safe, where you can heal and no predator can find you?
”Where is your mother?”

I can find nothing. No nest. No safe place.
I sit again.
She is still.
”Where is your mother?”
She is still.
”Where is your mother?”
She is still.
”Mother …”
I am weeping.
”Mother … “
I feel her body cool in my palm.
”Mother … “

I pick lilies of the valley to lie with her.

—May 16, 2019