Nonfiction / Kourtney Johnson
Two months after my stepfather shoots himself, my orange tabby finds a baby bird in the front yard. Fallen fledglings are common during the rainy Oklahoma springs and summers; freshly feathered birds drop from the nest before they can fly, hop along the grass and stretch their wings while Mama Bird keeps a watchful eye from above, swooping down for the occasional feeding. Within a week of falling, most bird fly. A rescuer of turtles, dogs, cats, and rats my whole life, I know better than grabbing the seemingly abandoned baby bird and throwing it in a cage. Just leave them be; they’re probably fine.
But this one is too pink, the tiny body just sprouting tubed feathers at the edges of its wings. Its small black eyes blink too slowly as it shivers. I shoo my cat, corral her inside and grab my gardening gloves. On my way back outside, I google, when to intervene fallen bird. The articles stress warmth: does the bird have enough feathers to stay warm?
Naked newborns are swaddled in nests of sticks, feathers, and whatever insulation the mother can find. Pressed in tight with their siblings, they retain heat even through rainy spring nights. My bird is nearly featherless and groggy, movements slow. I scoop him into my gloved hands, careful of his toothpick legs and paper wings, and deposit him into the t‑shirt lined shoebox I’ve assembled, the heating pad set on low. He nods off to sleep almost immediately, and I place the box on the corner of my desk, hellbent on saving this bird’s life.
The first goal is renesting, Google informs me. The nest will be close by, likely in a tall tree or porch gutter. Place the nestling carefully into the original nest. Hide nearby and wait for Mama Bird to return for a feeding— she will be close by. Ensure she feeds the returned nestling. If she does, you have successfully renested the bird.
If you cannot find the original nest, or it has been destroyed, you will need to construct a new nest and hang it near to the original. Place the nestling in the new nest. Again, hide, wait for the mother and ensure she visits the new nest.
If she ignores the new nest or refuses at any time to feed the fallen bird, the mother has abandoned the baby. Please call your local wildlife rehabber for further assistance.
I locate the nest easily, the high pitch chirps from above my head betraying the hidden home. They’re in my roof, a gap in the cracked porch ceiling large enough for whatever bird to slip through. Days of heavy rain had widened the opening, rattling the nest and sending the shivering bird on my desk tumbling. I attempt to slide my hand through the crack and barely get my fingers through, let alone a cupped palm and its passenger.
I adapt, dump the lotions and sprays from the wicker basket on my bathroom counter and begin nest construction. Trying to mimic a real nest, I twist branches from my front yard into an awkward oval and place it in the basket. On the porch, and nail the basket to a support beam as close to the gap as possible, test the durability, and move the cocooned bird into his new home. It’s early in the day, sun bright overhead, and I decide to wait in my truck parked in the driveway to stake out the nest, hope Mama Bird flies by.
It’s feeding time, the nestlings’ screams for food audible in the cab of my closed truck. I spot a flash of wings soar from beside the house and onto the gutter, the small brown bird pausing for a heartbeat before disappearing into the cracked roof. She’s quick, flits back onto the edge of the roof. From the makeshift nest, the displaced bird shouts, and Mom hears, her head flipping quickly around, seeking the source of the squawking. I hold my breath as she bounces along the roof for a few minutes before flying away. She returns twice within the hour, swooping into the original nest but never feeding the noisiest chirper wailing from my makeshift nest. My bird has been abandoned.
Newborn birds are ravenous, eating every half-hour. My bird, shivering and lethargic, likely hadn’t eaten since I’d found him, and I search for the best way to feed the hungry, screeching mouth. Thirty minutes later, I spoon soggy cat food into a needless syringe. The chick wails as his head tilts back, tiny yellow beak agape, waiting for the next mouthful. I work slowly, careful each bite is swallowed completely, no food blocking the bird’s throat. After a few plunges, the mouth closes, silent and content, and he burrows into the fake nest, finally peaceful.
I decide to leave him outside, check every hour for any sign of Mama Bird visiting the nest. But he’s always screaming when I peak my head over the edge, mouth gaping, begging. As night falls, the temperature drops twenty degrees, and I fear the naked newborn’s ability to survive the night. Again, I lift the baby, cup him in gloved hands and relocate him to the original box, heating pad ready. The first night, he sleeps in the bathroom, away from the cat but close to help, if my Bird needs me.
At five the next morning, hungry cries echo through my small house. I mix water and bits of cat food, wait for the appropriate mush level. In the bathroom, Bird is wide awake and impatient, scrawny head wiggling as food descends. We sit in the floor for about fifteen minutes, the cat pawing curiously against the door from outside. Eventually, Bird’s mouth closes, his eyes hood, and he falls asleep in the warmth of the t‑shirt. I clean the bits of food and poop around him, washing my hands and double checking his breathing before I head back to bed.
At a more appropriate hour for waking, we repeat the feeding process, and I return Bird to his faux nest outside. Socialization is integral to a bird’s development, for practical things like learning to eat and fly to developing a healthy fear of humans. Within the first few weeks of life, birds imprint on their primary caretakers, baby ducks falling in line behind their mother or penguins learning to slide along the ice. If disrupted, a newborn may claim a human as parent, alienating them from other birds and erasing the need to avoid people. These birds often die when released, unable to fend for themselves in the wild. I hope by leaving Bird outside, near his siblings, he may retain his avian affluence.
I call a local wildlife rehabber who directs me back to the internet: I need to identify Bird. I peak into the nest, snap a picture before scrolling through hundreds of Birds from Oklahoma life cycle images. Without feathers, many birds look the same, pink, fleshy bodies with oversized beaks. I hold Bird and the birds side by side, remember the size and color of his mother, narrow down the options before confirming: Bird is a House Sparrow.
Originally native to Europe, house sparrows were introduced purposefully to the United States in the 19th century as a form of pest control. The birds reproduced rapidly and aggressively, knocking eggs from foreign nests to lay their own or killing the original mothers all together, and earned Invasive status. They remain one of the most plentiful species of avian on the planet. If able, those with a house sparrow infestation should euthanize humanely by sealing off the location of the nest, inducing starvation and inhibiting the mother from returning, or call their local wildlife rehabber.
The rehabber confirms when I call: yes, Bird is likely an invasive species and will be euthanized upon arrival. When will I be dropping him off?
I feed Bird again (remember, every thirty minutes), and he leaps up slightly at the sight of my hand, thin legs growing strong enough to lift his tiny body. For the first time, I run a gloved finger along his head, offer the missing touch of fellow nesters, and realize my inability to send Bird to certain death. We repeat the previous day’s routine, and I again secure him in the bathroom, double check his heating pad before shutting off the lights.
As I carry Bird to the nest the next morning, a line of black ants guides my eyes to the dead bird rotting just off the porch. It’s another fallen nestling, its wings slightly more feathered than my bird, but still mostly pink. Half of the body’s already skeletal, ants and maggots stripping the flesh from the tiny bones. Carrying the decomposing bird to the garden for burial, I cry, apologize for the rickety roof, the hard fall onto the pavement, my inability to save them too. From his nest, Bird squawks, reminds me of his hunger, and I head inside to mush more cat food.
For a week, my days revolve around Bird, the constant feedings, checking his weight gain and feather growth. He’s progressing normally, according to the bird rescue forums I’ve joined, and I’ve moved him from small box to free roaming the bathtub as his wings flap experimentally. He hops along, flapping and wiggling, and I know soon he’ll begin to fly. His feathers fill in, no more pink visible between the flecks of brown and black.
For feedings, Bird starts perching on my finger, grip strengthening every time. I keep placing him in the nest outside during the day, but I warm to the idea of keeping him, wondering if he’s potentially imprinted on me as his mother. I start talking to him, call him, “Pretty Bird,” and offer him food from my hand instead of the syringe. I research cages. I say, “It just feels like the right thing to do,” never mention the potential havoc Bird may bring to less aggressive birds or my selfishness in raising an invasive species for release. In my world, I just need something to survive.
One afternoon, I carry my mushy cat food bowl up to the nest, say, “Hey, Pretty Bird,” and find the makeshift nest empty. I panic, assuming another leap and check the ground for my Bird. No ants, no pink, just grass, and I realize he’s gone. I talk to him from the porch, wait for my princess moment, but no Bird arrives to land on my finger or perch in my hair. My cat meows beside me, she too noticing the lack of chirps we’ve grown to expect. I dump the food and begin to tear down my nest. My mom calls, asks how Bird’s doing before I inform her of the abandoned nest. “That’s great. You did a good thing, baby,” and I desperately hope she is right. I leave the nest nailed to the beam, in case Bird comes back, in case another bird falls.
From the writer
:: Account ::
I took a large step away from writing after finishing my master’s program. Still in the weeds of quarantine, I’d grown to dread the act of creation and transformation, too stuck in my own head for any type of self-reflection.
After my stepfather’s suicide last spring, life became very binary: alive and dead, right and wrong. The human world felt too clean, too scrubbed of the heaviness of loss. The animal kingdom is often recognized as the ultimate example of death and its brutality, and I found nature to be a great comfort in the uncertainty of this grief. Birds I clung to specifically, with their loyalty, resilience, and gorgeous brutality.
This essay combines the truth of my bird rehabilitation hobby with the truth of knowing we can’t save them all; but still desperately trying.
Kourtney Johnson holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Oklahoma State University. She now lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where she writes about shelter animals. Her essays have previously appeared in Waccamaw, Switchback, and LEVITATE.