In late Summer, an Eastern Bluebird crashed into my window,
knocking herself unconscious. Hearing the loud thud of her small
head hitting glass, I ran outside to see her there on the
ground, curled and still.
Picking up a spray bottle filled with
water that I keep near the grill to fight flare-ups, switching
the nozzle from diffuse spray to a hard stream, I proceeded
to inundate the bird's body with strong invigorating pulses of water,
while shouting out prayers and encouragement, attempting to resurrect
the life left within.
Suddenly the bluebird jumped to its feet, and stood there a moment, dazed and confused, a miniature feathered Lazarus, shook itself as if after a bath, water splaying off her body, she whistled a quick song in my direction and flew off, albeit a bit shakily.
Weeks pass and I am outside enjoying the last remnants of
warm weather that Autumn offers, playing acoustic guitar in
the backyard, sheets of Cole Porter and Gershwin tunes flapping,
paper-clipped to my music stand.
As I work my way through the intricacies of Someone to Watch Over Me, I am startled by a sudden flurry of wings about me. Two Eastern Bluebirds alight, one on the music stand, and one on a nearby watering can, while a third hovers like a hummingbird at eye-level, trilling a lovely song directly to me. She is unafraid and wholly engaged
in her task there before me.
Looking closely, I can see the slightest flattening of the bird's
crown, where she made contact with the window weeks before.
I feel my breath catch hard in my throat, and I begin to cry,
knowing that this is a small party come to thank me. As they fly
away, I send a cascade of arpeggios to follow them, filled with love,
you're welcome, and thank you, from this humbled human.
Chagall 2020
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