Broken Birds

I see the impact through the window. The spinning blades hit each of them in rapid succession – BAM-BAM – a puff of feathers and a falling body. Two mourning doves, perched on the cowling of the ceiling fan on our porch, are struck as they take flight. I go out to where they’ve landed, hoping they’re only bruised, but neither can fly. One hops away from me. The other hides behind a pot in the corner, immobile.

I go inside feeling as stunned as the birds, not knowing what to do. My thoughts circle:  Should I ignore them? Should I let nature take its course? Exposure or a cat might take them. If they die in the yard, how do I dispose of them? Is it legal to put them in the trash? Maybe they will recover and fly away, like the songbird that hit our window last year. She lay motionless for quite a while before righting herself and darting off.

But as the afternoon wears on, the birds remain. I feel burdened that this is now my problem. I’m confounded until I remember our city has a wildlife center that cares for injured animals. I look them up. They close at six o’clock.

I feel a sense of urgency now. These birds are in pain and I can help – why not do so? I go outside with two boxes. No matter how soothingly I talk, the frisky one evades me, hopping through the fence into my neighbor’s yard. I enlist his help and after a comic chase through the flowerbeds, we corral her. I hold her firmly but gently so she won’t struggle. I don’t want to cause further harm. In my hands, she looks large but weighs nothing, a warm bundle of feathers. Her eyes are black dots, looking at me without expression. I wonder if she feels pain as I do, or fear. I place her in the box and tape it shut, elated that I might be able to pull off this rescue.

I go back for the second dove, sitting motionless where he has been all afternoon. I talk to him for a minute, explaining what I’m going to do. As I reach for him, he explodes in panic, revealing the bloody wound along his shoulder. I didn’t know he was hurt this badly. I bring my hands close. He lifts his wings and tries to crawl, brave bird, stopping only when he feels my hands. I stay still a moment to ready us both, and then cradle my fingers under his broken wing until they touch his chest, where I can lift his weight. Same soft body as his mate, same black eyes. I pick him up and lower him into the box.

It’s a slow drive through rush hour traffic to the wildlife center, two boxes in the back. I’ve formed a relationship with these broken birds. They’re no longer a problem to be solved, they’re friends. If all consciousness is connected, then I am connected to these two. Their suffering is part of all suffering, and to relieve some helps all, even by a feather’s weight on the great scales of the cosmos. Every good act redounds to the benefit of goodness. And don’t we all need more of that.

I arrive at the center and carry them in. I explain what happened. The receptionist takes my birds into the back.

“Is that it?” I ask. “Can I help?” I’m not sure how I expect to help. Suit up for aviary surgery, perhaps?

“No. That’s it,” she says.

“Will they be okay? Do you think they’ll have to be euthanized?”

“They’re in good hands. The vet is with them now. She says they seem lively.”

I feel strange leaving them, but my role here is done. I open the door, walk across the light of the late afternoon, get into my car, and drive home. If there’s karma, I hope I’ve added to the cache; that someone’s there to care for me the day I break a wing; or that it passes through to those in need of it today.

Photo by Zuzana Rainet on Unsplash