Bird on the Window

There was a starling sitting on the 2 1/2 inch ledge of the window above our front door this morning when we got up.

Crouched down and pressed against the glass, it looked like an oblong shadow with a beak. An open beak. The only way to tell it was alive was that the beak, against the glass, had a halo of moisture around it.

Bernie had thought he'd heard a thump just before he got out of bed, and speculated that the bird had flown into the window and knocked itself silly.

Over the course of the next hour and a half, his hypothesis seemed likely. After about 15 minutes, we saw the bird begin to close and reopen its beak. Then it seemed to start seeing the movement in the house, sitting a little straighter, turning its head to watch Howie trot through the front room on the way to check out where all his peoples were scattered about the house.

It tried to stand, but sat down again and resumed panting.

I didn't, at that point, have any assurances that the bird was going to live, or any judgments that the bird was going to die. I was just honored that a living creature chose a place so close to us to let its fight for life pan out.

My comfy chair in the kitchen is in a direct line with the front door, so I saw it flutter its wings like a fledgling at one point, and then saw it sit up straighter and begin to turn its head -- birdlike! -- at another. Then I watched it stretch one wing, and then the other.

Bernie, who had been stopping by the door to speak to the bird, was there to see it flutter to a hanging basket from the windowsill, and saw it fly away after another minute to the trees.

I didn't take a picture of the bird. The flash necessary at that dim light of day would only have increased its trauma. Its poor life is too short for that kind of shit.