When Birds Fall

I’m sitting on the couch in my living room chatting with a friend of mine when a loud thump against the window startles us both. We whip our heads around to see what it could’ve been.

“A bird?” she asks, scanning the front porch.

I, too, dart my eyes around when they land on a small sparrow sitting upright and stunned by the leg of my front porch chair. “Yes!” I say, “There!”

I hop up from the couch, run to the front door, throw it open, and scoop up the small bird in my hands. I instantly recognize this sparrow because it’s been making a home with his or her partner in the birdhouse hanging over head. [that story here, if you missed it.] The tiny creature barely flinches as I hold its delicate, nearly weightless body in my hands. With the tip of my finger and as gently as I can, I stroke his or her back and whisper, “it’s okay, it’s okay” over and over again.

From inside, my friend opens the window and asks me if the bird is okay, to which I reply that I think so. It’s breathing and nothing looks broken.

Several minutes pass and I stand to try and transfer the sparrow into its house where I can hear his or her partner chirping and as I lift my hands, the tiny birds hops onto the birdhouse, looks at me, and cocks its tiny head.

As the day goes on, I keep an eye on the front porch to ensure that there’s no injured sparrow and much to my delight, I catch both sparrows returning to their birdhouse later on in the afternoon and disappearing inside of it. I’m pleased to know that I didn’t scare them away: I worried that might’ve happened as soon as I cupped the bird into my hands.

This sparrow situation comes on the tail of two weeks in which Andre, one of my Rhode Island Red Hens, has been missing. You may remember her, she was the broody one who ultimately hatched Bowie, our bright and boisterous rooster [that story here]. She’s also the one who habitually pecks at the back door to get my attention and hopefully, table scraps.

I let my hens free range most days (especially in the humid stillness of summer) and two weeks ago, she didn’t come back to the coop. Had it been any of my other hens, I wouldn’t worry so much, assuming they’d decided to go on a walkabout and perhaps they found love on someone else’s property and decided to stay. Andre though, well she’s a homebody; a mama’s girl. At this point, I’ve assumed the worst and it just breaks my heart. I love that hen. I love her so much so that I had a t-shirt made with her photo on it earlier this year because well…just because.

In addition to that gut-tugging sense of loss, I’m feeling like a failure that Andre has gone missing, like I should’ve done more. In hindsight, however, her being out of the coop in the first place was me trying to be a good chicken mom. I wanted for her and her sisters to have some breezy, fresh air and those really juicy, flicking bugs that hop around in the summer grass. Sometimes, I suppose, things just happen beyond our best control and despite our best intentions.

I never thought I’d miss a chicken so much but then again, there’s a lot that I didn’t know about myself until I moved here and there’s a heck of a lot I’m still figuring out. I think one of the most important things I’ve learned is just how deeply responsible we are for one another, human and animal alike. It is our responsibility to be kind, to help where we can, and to try and understand one another even when we think we have no obligation to do so. We should lift each other up, hold each other, keep an eye out for one another so that when someone falls, you’re there to lift them up and help them home. There’s a lot of finger pointing going on these days—a lot of hearts sealed shut and it’s destroying us. 

Perhaps Andre is off finding herself. Perhaps she’s doing exactly what I’ve been doing for the past several years—taking a grand adventure to meet new characters and discover her own strength—and one day, I’ll hear a little tap tap tap on the back door and open it to find two little orange eyes looking up at me. I can only hope with all my heart that that’s the case.

Until then, I’m glad to know I’ve not scared the sparrows off yet. I’m tickled to know that the two of them are floofed up together in that gently swaying birdhouse that we built. I fully intend on keeping a close eye out for them, there to catch them if they fall.