I watched the tiny bird hop down the sidewalk on Grand River Avenue, a
busy six-lane thoroughfare which separates East Lansing and the campus
of Michigan State. From a distance, the little fellow seemed aloof and
unconcerned. But as I strolled by, in the middle of my Saturday shopping,
he got spooked and hopped toward the street. I wasn't paying much
attention: on some level I just assumed that he would fly away, as birds
usually do. After all, most of them have a fairly wide comfort zone.
But nagging at the back of my brain was a question as to why this bird
was still on the ground at a distance of three, two and now one foot
away? Evidently he decided that one foot was close enough, thank
you, and he fluttered out into the middle of traffic.
That really caught my eye - a bird on a kamikaze mission! He
sat shivering in the first lane, and as I peered closely at him, I realized
two things very quickly. First, the short wings and pink underbelly
indicated that he was just a baby. He had only gained about three
inches of altitude when he cleared the curb; he wasn't capable of
flying anywhere. Second, he was in the middle of onrushing vehicles.
One car passed over him, but he was lucky, he was right between
the tires. The experience petrified him. He hunkered down in the
middle of the road, pulling his tiny feet up underneath him. He
seemed resigned to his future as a feathered pancake.
I, however, didn't want to witness his extinction, so I dashed into traffic.
Horns blaring, drivers cursing, tires squealing - but I couldn't let
the little guy face that all alone. The drivers might be able to see me,
but he'd be invisible, flat under their tires in a flash. He was quick for
a fledgling, though, and it took four passes before I scooped up a
tiny handful of quivering feathers and pink gullet. Of course he was
hungry - after a close call like his, I'd be hungry, too.
Over the next two days, I found out from the university's animal husbandry
experts what a young sparrow's favorite foods were, but I was warned
not to expect too much - they said that he probably wouldn't accept
food from anyone but his mother. To make things worse, they warned
me that his family and friends would probably shun him, now that he
had been in contact with a human's scent. I was devastated. In my
panicked attempt to save him, it seemed that I had condemned him.
The rest of the weekend passed very slowly - from time
to time I halfheartedly offered him food. He looked sadly puzzled,
but never ate anything.
On Monday, I took him back to Grand River Avenue, as he nestled,
bedraggled, in the open grocery box that I had made into his bed. I
figured he might as well see the old neighborhood one last time. As I was
wandering down the sidewalk, I saw some sparrows in the third-story
eaves, and I guessed that he had fallen out of a nest up there. So I
climbed the stairs to the roof, and set his box down a few feet away
from the wide three-foot-high guardrail. I leaned back against the
rail and stared down at him. He stared back, mute, and seemingly
hopeless. I wondered what his life might have been like if he hadn't
fallen out of his nest, and if I hadn't picked him up.
Then a large female sparrow swooped over his box, and he became
agitated - a second later, he fluttered right up out of the box,
and down onto the rooftop. This startled me, since he had never
seemed capable of escape in his two days at my apartment.
The larger sparrow was chirping to him from up on top of the
guardrail - she obviously wanted him to join her up there.
But I was perplexed: if the animal husbandry people were right,
this larger bird shouldn't even be speaking to him. She flew down
to him and he opened his mouth wide, not making a sound. I was
stunned - this must be Mom! Sure enough, she had something
in her beak which she dropped into his tiny throat. He swallowed it
whole, and I may have been indulging in wishful thinking, but he looked
healthier right away. Great! Mother and child back together, not too
much the worse for wear...
Feeling very self-righteous, I stood up, thinking, "My work here is done."
But Mom was acting strangely: from the top of the guardrail, she
was flying out over Grand River Avenue in small circles, and coming
back to chirp down at Junior. Junior was getting excited, bouncing
up and down - he finally hopped up to the top of the rail. They
both chattered and worked their way closer to the edge, as Mom flew
her tiny sorties. I was somewhat mystified, but then it dawned on me that
Mom was continuing a flying lesson which had been interrupted two days
before. With growing alarm, I could see how he had ended up on the
sidewalk in the first place; I got ready to sprint down the stairs and
scoop Junior out of heavy traffic again.
Then, almost as if in slow motion, Mom flew off toward the campus side
of the street. As I held my breath, Junior jumped off, flapping weakly
against gravity. Down he went, five feet, ten feet, and my heart sank
with him. I was riveted by the spectacle of a disaster in the making.
But then his descent slowed; something must have clicked into place
inside his mind. He fluttered out, barely ten feet above the hurtling cars
below, to follow Mom across the six lanes. He was barely avoiding a tall
tractor-trailer; I was biting my nails. He was swerving to avoid a school
bus; I was tilting my outstretched hands as if I could show him how.
After what seemed like a thousand missed heartbeats, I watched him
land safely in a tree on the edge of campus. I hadn't noticed before,
but the tree must have been full of waiting sparrows, because as
soon as he chose his landing spot, the entire tree exploded in wildly
gorgeous birdsong. I guess, in their own way, they were celebrating
Junior's first solo flight.
I whistled on my way to class that morning.
