I've heard a whisper that I am to have a story in an upcoming anthology! It'll be named, and we'll squee about it later, when the anthology is out and able to be purchased. It's a very exciting thing, though, and I feel like I've been dancing around with ice cream cones under the threads of rainbows, and how can that be bad?
I do have a story of Cottage Life.
Oh, dear, do I ever have a story!
We are the perennial recipients of swallows' nests under one of the porches. The swallows are not much to endure. They're beautiful to watch, and I've grown accustomed to their chirping, their expert funambulism as they perch on lines and preen themselves.
Already this year, Tails had to clean up the rather sad little body of one swallow baby who'd fallen from the nest.
A little more than a week later, I was tested in almost the same way. Except my swallow baby was still alive.
I was downstairs doing laundry, and I kept hearing this "cheep, cheep!" I went out the door to look, and couldn't find anything unusual. I went back to the washer. "Cheep, cheep, cheep!" Then I thought, "Oh, no, the bird is inside!"
So I went back to the door and waited.
"Cheep, cheep, cheep!"
No. It wasn't inside. It was definitely outside.
So I looked again. Of course I hadn't seen it right away, it was very small and more like a heap of dried, cut grass than a living creature.
What a terrible thing! At least it was alive, though.
I walked up to it carefully, trying to test its ability to fly. Its wings flapped helplessly. Tiny wings made of tiny feathers. It wasn't going to get back to where it belonged, and I didn't know what else to do but help it.
Whenever I try and help, I inadvertently make things worse. I was terrified to help, afraid that I'd kill it.
But I put on some thick cleaning gloves, knowing that if I tried, I would've at least tried, and leaving it there to be eaten or die was an option worse than dealing with my curse.
I do not. Do not. Recommend. Doing. This. I do not recommend doing this. It's scary trying to save a little bird.
But I had to chase it around the slab of cement for a little while, into the high grassy area nearby, where I was finally able to get a hold of it. To keep it from walking out of my hand, as it seemed inclined to do, my little funambulist-in-training, I covered it with my other hand in a kind of cage, with my fingers splayed, like Gandalf holding the moth. (Now, don't be coy with your geekiness, you know what I'm talking about.) I checked around to find its nest among the rafters of the porch above my head. It's kind of hidden, tucked away behind an aluminum sheet, and not easy to find with the naked eye bothered by sunny glare and dirty spectacles.
I unfolded my hands carefully to check on the baby bird. It'd hunkered into my fingers and closed its eyes. It must've thought, "Oh, right, a parent is on me now and I will just rest! Phew, glad that's over!" It was cute...
After a few more seconds of frantic searching, I finally found an opening between beams and sheet that I could wrench my hand into. At first, the bird was reluctant. I pulled my gloved hand out, little birdie and all, afraid I'd squish him. Then, bravely, I tried again. This time it hopped out, as if it knew exactly where it was!
Now, I was relieved! I waited a few seconds to be sure it didn't fall out again. Then I went upstairs, breathing heavily, and washed the gloves in a solution of diluted bleach, and washed my hands with soap and water.
Through the evening, I checked to be sure the baby bird wasn't again on the ground. It wasn't. I could hear its lone cheep, cheep as its parents swooped in to drop morsels in its beak.
I felt I'd done something good. And the important part is that I tried to do something good.
This is kind of what it looked like. (From Keepers Cottage Wildlife Garden Diary)
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