Very early this morning, I was awakened by fluttering. I raised my head off my pillow and looked out the window thinking I would see a bird there in the dim, dawn light.
I sat up and saw our cat (appropriately named Trouble) cornering a small mockingbird under my desk. Light grey flecks of feathers speckled the dark green rug.
I’ll be honest. I wanted to pull the covers over my head. Instead, I got up, put Trouble in the bathroom, wrapped the wounded bird in a towel and carried it outside.
What to do? I could feel its heart beating in my hand. But I knew at least one of its wings and one of its legs were broken. There was a puncture wound on its belly and it was hard to say how much of its thimble full blood was still in its small body.
I laid it under a tree. It was quiet. I wished it well on its next journey. Then I watched until it didn’t flutter anymore.