I found the hummingbird yesterday, bonked out on the pavement beneath the large plate glass window of my building as I was rushing off to a meeting. Ohhhh, no. No, no, no…not again. I paused, bent down, cautiously picked it up.. still breathing, little gasps. So tiny. I was afraid of crushing the soft, iridescent body as I gently plucked it off the cement.
(I wish I’d taken a photo of my hummer, but there are thousands of beauties on Unsplash. )
I raced back to my loft and gently, carefully laid her (or him) in a little pot of herbs on my balcony table. If she makes it, I will have saved one out of thousands of birds who fly into windows every day.
I’ve saved a few birds— the ones that were just stunned from the impact— and buried a greater number, who have flown into the big plate glass windows which front the old brick mill building where I live, in Pawtucket RI. A Northern flicker, mourning doves, a robin, a song sparrow, a blue jay, the occasional pigeon. They slam into the glass and drop to the pavement. I shudder to think of that enormous, sudden blow as a bird flies freely, unknowingly, directly into an invisible barrier. Wham. Smack. I even got the HOA Board to agree to put bird decal stickers on the windows. I ordered some from Amazon, and with the help of a neighbor, plastered them onto the windows according to directions, but they kept falling off. Eventually someone just removed them.
And now- a hummingbird.
I am somehow a bird rescuer, although I never set out to be. Like so many people, I have a crazy deep love for these creatures. While I don’t consider myself a real birder, per se, I come from a long line of bird lovers, and have studied, learned, and read about birds my whole life, sort of a side hobby. I’ve found hundreds of feathers, and more often than not save them. And I’ve picked up more birds off the road than I can remember. One of the saddest was a yellow warbler who had just flown into the windshield of a car ahead of me. I stopped, raced over to it as it lay in the road. It was still alive, but clearly done for. My heart ached. And then tears came when its mate flew over and landed right next to me on the pavement, hopping and chirping, as I held it. He, or she, was suffering. They both were. I made the decision to end its suffering. I fantasize that its mate went off to find another mate and lived happily ever after.
Last winter I found a dead Cooper’s hawk at the foot of a big white pine in my urban neighborhood. It was such a fluke… she was still warm, like she’d just fallen out of the tree.1 No visible signs of damage. But the eyes appeared puffy, and I suspect it was the avian flu, or maybe she’d eaten a poisoned rat. Lots of rats in the neighborhood. I brought her home; she’s wrapped up and still in my freezer. (I did call the state wildlife agency- they didn’t want it for testing, though they told me I was in criminal possession of a bird of prey and to dispose of it “properly.”) I’ve kept dead birds in freezers for years, as I used to use their wings, bones and feathers in my art. (No longer, though.) I’ll need to give the hawk a proper burial, or maybe a natural history museum would like it?
And then there was the barred owl. I’m driving back from the grocery store on an early winter’s evening (this was many years ago, in Connecticut) and I’m close to home when I see a shape on the side of the road— it’s an owl, just sitting there. I pull over, get out and walk back towards him. He doesn’t move, but his head is turning back and forth. One side of his head is bloodied, the eye swollen and shut. He’s definitely in shock. And he is huge.
It’s a cold evening, the ground is frozen. I take off my parka, slowly bend down to approach this magnificent bird, who calmly looks at me through the one golden eye that works. He looks fine, unless you look at the part of his head that is bloodied, and the swollen shut eye. I carefully wrap my coat around this giant bird, carry it back to my car, somehow manage to get into the driver’s seat with him next to me, and drive the remaining 8 minutes home.
It wasn’t until I got home, after I brought the owl inside and was holding it on my lap that I remembered about the talons. I’d been a little concerned about its beak, but an owl’s talons are its lethal weapon. As I held this gigantic bird of prey in my lap for well over an hour, stroking its head, it sat quietly, glancing around. Miraculously, for both of us, I’d been able to contact a wildlife rescue person who came later that evening to take him to a rehabilitation facility, and she was wearing thick leather gloves. “You weren’t wearing heavy gloves?” she remarked as she carefully transferred the owl into a canvas carrier. “Uh, well, just thin ones…” I said. I couldn’t exactly say to her “He knew I was saving him” but that’s exactly how I felt that night. It was an experience I will never forget.2
The owl spent six months in rehab, and when they released him, I was there to watch him fly free. He took off into the sky, circled over some pine trees, and flew off.
And my hummer? When I looked for her in the potted plant this morning, she was gone, and, I’m hoping, healed from her accident. I’ll never know, but I imagine her whizzing off to find a new lease on life. As I turned to head back inside, I glanced up , and a heron was gliding past on his way upriver. I watched him until he was out of sight. Maybe I’m feeling a bit smug, but I’m sure he was there just for me.
Hawks have always served as an important totem for me. Looking up the meaning of finding a dead hawk, there are references to personal growth, transitioning, and stepping into new territory. Evolving. The end of a cycle or chapter in one’s life. Yep, that happened.
As an aside, I got a hummingbird tattoo on my back when I turned fifty. And for my 65th birthday, I got an owl tattoo on my left forearm— a gift to myself to remember to observe, and tap into my wisdom.
What’s your relationship to birds? Have you rescued one from the road or from flying into a window? I’d love to hear from you. 🐦⬛
What a touching read, Karen.
Last summer I was upset when a green woodpecker flew into my home office window, being chased by a crow and died. I worried that was the population gone. This summer I spotted two green woodpeckers outside the kitchen, grubbing in the grass. Such a relief.
Love this story Karen! I built a little garden and bird feeding station this summer in hopes of seeing them closer— but the neighborhood cat has also found his perch on a bench beneath ….. grrr…..