Bearwalker taught me about saving birds and I've seen him many times sitting in his chair, big warm hands closed over a little feathered form--comforting and safe and...healing.
I head outside, looking into the ferns for signs of feathers. There he is...a lesser goldfinch, curled into himself, black and white wings loose and bright yellow breast barely rising. If I left him there, he would die. In shock, cold and alone, chances are good his little heart would stop. I pick him up and take him inside.
Cupping him to my own chest, I cover his head, creating a warm dark nest, like Bearwalker would do. My addition to the process is conversation. I murmur to him about what's happening outside the window, tell him someone out there is watching and waiting for his return.
After fifteen minutes, he stirs. A little wiggle. I uncover him and he blinks up at me. We go to the sink, I give him a drop of water at a time until he swallows. And poops on my palm. Twice.
Back outside, we stand in a patch of sunlight and I open my hand. "Are you ready?"
He sits for a few long minutes - wonderful and sweet long minutes for me - and then in a flash of yellow and black, is gone.
There are little lives all around us, their dramas and sorrows as real as our own. Today was a good day for us both.