bird in the hand

Have you ever seen a bird fly into a window? And again? And again and again, over and over until there is a discernable smudge on the glass?

It’s a pitiful sight, I can tell you. “Stop!” you would cry, as I did, and then realise that even before it had done sizeable damage to its cranial capacity, it was still a bird, and thus would have had great difficulty understanding my plea.

At moments like this, a person is either paralysed by fear or spurred into action. I think you know I wouldn’t be telling this story if it wasn’t one of epic heroism. Yes, on this occasion I was the latter. There was a bird that needed to be stopped from pounding itself relentlessly into the double-glazing, before it started seeing little cartoon versions of itself circling its head.

It went sort of like this:

 And then I took it outside to let it fly forth into freedom. But the poor thing was so disoriented from the constant bashing of its tiny skull, and then its rescue by a (self-taught) ninja, that it could not instantly adjust to its new surroundings.

So we wandered awhile, my new familiar and I. He perched on my hand as we walked through fields and trees, by the lake… On we walked, him never seeking to flee.

The best thing I ever did and no-one saw how epic it was.