I looked up from the computer, wondering about the “thump.” Then I saw the robin on the patio — fluttering wings outspread, struggling to get up.
Outside, through the gate, into the side-yard. “Are you okay?” I asked reflexively.
She wasn’t, at least at first. Her beak and eyes were wide open, and she was panting — or do robins always breathe that way? She seemed dazed but unhurt (no broken legs or anything), so I sat down next to her and babbled softly: “You poor thing. We’ll get you fixed up, give you some nice worm broth and pyracantha cobbler,” etc.
After about ten minutes (during which I wondered what I could wrap her in for transport to the local bird-rescue center), she closed her beak and blinked at me. Then she stood up, wobbled, and hopped away.
“Good! You’re okay!” I said, relief warming me more than the chill morning air. “But can you fly?”
She flapped her wings a couple of times, then rose from the patio and soared across the creek. I don’t think she saw the hawk. It took her in midflight and a cloud of feathers, with no sound but a faint rustle.
Gak.
aww, shit. Poor lil’ birdie, and poor you.
Robin. It’s what’s for dinner.
Aww. Sometimes it really sucks to witness Nature in all her glory, like cats doing what cats do, and hawks doing what hawks do. I think sometimes we need to cut ourselves some slack as a species, in spite of our destructive tendencies, for being capable of compassion.
Well put. Also, we’re the only species (that we know of) that records its history in writing. Not taking anything away from those other animals who teach their children the Elder Wisdom they need to survive; they just don’t write it down.
Yes! Speaking of instinct and genetic memory, I am only now getting around to reading Jean Auel’s Clan of the Cave Bear, and the succeeding Earth’s Children series. Really cool stuff.