September 18, 2018 by mbhmaine

Water and Photo Therapy

On Saturday I went down to the river, anxious to recover some slow and easy morning time now that school has sucked flexibility right out of my schedule. Even though my school year is off to a great start, I’m still finding the adjustment quite difficult. All week long it feels like I’m in a free fall, then, come the weekend, I land with a jolt. I spend Saturday recovering (and running errands, etc) and then Sunday arrives, feeling just like impending Monday. Oh, how I wish for 4 day weeks and a bit of balance!

At any rate, on this past Saturday before sunrise, I drove down to the river. Although it was clear at my house, the river was wreathed in fog when I arrived. What a difference a mile and some change in elevation can make! There I encountered my photography friend, Roger, and met another local photographer as well. The three of us chatted, enthused about the beauty of the morning, then drifted apart to take photos.

“I’m going to the bridge to see if the green heron is back,” I announced, and wandered off on my own.

Although the heron Roger and I had spotted earlier in the week was nowhere in sight, I traipsed around happily, enjoying the dew-covered webs, the foggy vistas, and the occasional chittering call of the kingfisher.

After a bit, I set off to check out some nearby docks and the spider-web covered aster I’d noticed earlier in the week.

Eventually, I wandered back over to the dock area on the other side of the river. When I arrived, both photographers had their cameras and their attention focused on the water. Clearly, something had caught their eye! As I moved closer, Roger glanced up.

“Oh,” he smiled broadly, “I’m so glad you’re back! I didn’t know where you were. The green heron is here!”

Sure enough the young green heron I had failed to locate on the other side of the river was perched here on the back of a water filled boat. We zoomed, focused and shot picture after picture, making occasional admiring comments.

Shortly after my return, a great blue heron flew in for a cameo appearance.

After a brief visit, he departed, those glorious powerful wings moving him up and away. We turned and followed his flight until he disappeared, then our attention returned to the green heron. He continued to entertain us with his fishing exploits for quite some time, and we shot picture after picture, moving from one vantage to another.

I clicked away as the minutes passed, heedless of time, content to be exactly where I was–enjoying the company of two like-minded folk and an obliging heron. Eventually, the heron flew away and the lure of coffee pulled me homeward. But, after spending a morning down by the river, life felt a bit more settled.

Here’s hoping that elusive balance makes an appearance this week. If not, perhaps I’ll head to the beach.

September 11, 2018 by mbhmaine

Tech Savvy

11454297503_e27946e4ff_h As I chopped and diced in the kitchen, I heard Kurt’s voice in the adjacent room. He and our son, Connor, had been playing phone tag all day, and they had finally connected. I heard Kurt’s side of the conversation and imagined Connor’s contributions. From what I could hear, I was pretty sure they were talking about Connor’s recent white-water rafting adventure with some anticipatory football talk woven in.

After about ten minutes, Kurt got off the phone. I called into the other room.

“So, what’s new with Connor and Courtney?”

“Not much. He and Courtney were about to eat, so he had to go.”

We continued with our separate activities– me, making soup, Kurt, putzing around on the internet. A minute later, Kurt’s phone rang and he answered. I was pretty sure I could hear Connor’s voice on the other end. Again, I could hear only Kurt’s side of the conversation.

“Oh.”

…..

“Yeah, I was trying to follow something.”

…..

“I wondered about that.”

…..

“Well, thanks. Talk to ya later!”

Then, Kurt got off the phone.

“Was that Connor again?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“What’s up?”

“He just called to make sure I knew I was live streaming my feet on Facebook.”

“What?!”

“Yeah. I pushed this button and thought I was going to watch someone’s live stream, but apparently I started one instead. Of my feet.”

Well, that just pushed me right over the edge. I immediately started laughing. Pretty soon I was laughing so hard that I was bent over, holding my sides. Calming down slightly, I walked into the other room.

“Wait,” I said, in between continuing bursts of laughter and eye-wiping, “You mean your son had to call you and tell you that you were showing a live video of your feet on Facebook?”

“Yup,” he said, chuckling. “You think that’s pretty funny, huh?”

I laughed and laughed and laughed. I was laughing so hard that Kurt started laughing, too. I’d simmer down and then Kurt would say something like, “Good thing he called!” or “I wonder if I was moving my feet or just holding them still?” and I’d get going all over again.

Finally, I went back to the kitchen and resumed chopping vegetables, but every few minutes, I’d start up laughing again. The whole thing just struck me as utterly ridiculous. I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in years.

Later that evening when I was browsing through Facebook, I saw Kurt’s recent post and it started me up all over again:
Screen Shot 2018-09-11 at 5.21.04 AM.png

September 7, 2018 by mbhmaine

Playing with Verbs

unnamed Recently, Irene Latham posted a poem challenge in a post titled Free Verbs! Pick 5. She shared a picture of verbs she’d seen in a Kindermusik room. The challenge was to choose five words and write a poem containing those words. I chose the words: poke, creep, punch, spin and press. Here’s my effort:

Fall’s shadow
infiltrates summer
poking chilly fingers
into early mornings
creeping into shivering trees
punching color onto leaves
spinning birds into southward flight
pressing closer, closer, closer.

The Poetry Friday Round-up this week is hosted by the gallery hostess-with-the-mostest, Carol Varsalona, at her blog, Beyond Literacy Link. She’s sharing a sneak peek at her upcoming summer gallery, The Art of Summering. (Pssst–you can still send her a submission if you get it in today!)

September 4, 2018 by mbhmaine

Meep! Meep!

11454297503_e27946e4ff_h I was working my slow-but-steady way up a killer hill on my running route, when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to see my neighbor churning up the hill behind me.

“Hey, there!” I said.

“Oh, good. I didn’t want to startle you,” he said. ” I always worry about that when I come up behind someone to pass them.”

“Yeah,” I said with a smile, as he swiftly moved by me. “That’s not a problem I have to worry about!”

He laughed and we exchanged a few quick comments about the first day of school (he’s a teacher, too) and then he was out of earshot, zooming down the road.

I felt myself picking up my pace, instinctively responding to his lead.

“But wait,” I thought after a moment. “What am I doing? I don’t even want to go faster.”

I deliberately eased up a bit, sliding back into my regular pace.

Speed is so attractive, isn’t it? It seems like a solid measure of accomplishment. I suppose you could argue that it wouldn’t hurt me to run faster, and it probably wouldn’t. But I’ve worked hard to be less focused on the numbers in running. I no longer keep track of the miles I run, I don’t time myself, etc. I am just out there because, crazily enough, I enjoy the process. It’s good for my body and my brain. Running faster is something I’ve tried and not enjoyed. It’s not a good fit for me, at least not right now. So why would I get pulled back into that vortex just because the roadrunner spun by?

There are many things you can work on as a runner–form, speed, distance, etc. I’m a very casual runner. To be honest, much of what I’m working on when I’m running is my writing. I tumble thoughts and words over in my head, searching for combinations, sparks of ideas, trains of thought, etc. My goals for restarting running this summer were pretty basic and looked something like this:

Don’t injure myself
Run frequently
Gradually increase distance (and that means from 2 miles to maybe 3.5)

I’ve done well with these goals and I’m perfectly satisfied with my less than record-breaking pace…until someone comes along and breezes right by me.

This moment reminded me that it’s all too easy to get pulled off course by a speedy runner, a flashy new idea or the pull of curricular demands. As school starts today, I have a few solid goals in mind for the year. These goals are tailored to my strengths and needs and will certainly adjust to meet the strengths and needs of my new class. And sure, I’m flexible and open to new ideas coming along, and I know I need to meet the demands of the curriculum, but my run yesterday reminded me that keeping my goals in the forefront is important — pursuing someone else’s goals, not so much.

So when that speedy runner or bright new idea comes along, I have to consciously remind myself that I’m doing what I need and want to do. Their agenda isn’t necessarily mine. But it can take some work to remind myself of that.

August 31, 2018 by mbhmaine

Poetry and Prison

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Poetry Foundation’s poem of the day on August 27th was “The Cremation of Sam McGee” by Robert Service. The poem begins like this:

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
      By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
  That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
  But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ’round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”

The poem continues for thirteen more verses then ends with a repetition of the refrain. It struck me as a poem I would have enjoyed reciting with friends on a long bus ride or at camp (rather like the Titanic song “Oh, they built the ship Titanic to sail the ocean blue.”) It seemed an unusual choice for Poetry Foundation to share… until I saw the editor’s note. It stated that this had been Senator John McCain’s favorite poem. The story goes that when he was a prisoner of war in Vietnam, he and another prisoner “typed” this poem back and forth to each other through the walls of their cells using a tap code.

I was fascinated by this story and decided to investigate. I discovered an episode of Poetry in America that focused on the poem, “To Prisoners”, by Gwendolyn Brooks. It was described like this: “This episode brings together a group of interpreters who learned in prison to hear poetry’s “call.” Learn from Senator John McCain, playwright and activist Anna Deavere Smith, poets Reginald Dwayne Betts and Li-Young Lee, and four exonerated prisoners about poetry’s special resonance for those behind bars.” I clicked on it to check it out and was drawn in for the full 25 minute episode. It’s a fascinating look at the poem and how different people interpret it.

To Prisoners

I call for you cultivation of strength in the dark.
Dark gardening
in the vertigo cold.
in the hot paralysis.
Under the wolves and coyotes of particular silences.
Where it is dry.
Where it is dry.
I call for you
cultivation of victory Over
long blows that you want to give and blows you are going to get.click here to read the rest of the poem.

Watching the video, I learned more about the story of the poem tapping that first sent me on my internet journey. What I discovered was that Bill Lawrence, who occupied a cell next to John McCain, actually taught John McCain that poem while they were in prison. (Tune in at 11:40 in the video if you want to hear McCain recite part of this poem and tell the story.) McCain explained that Bill would type a few lines to him and then he would tap them back. Each time McCain would add the lines to what he’d already learned, accumulating the poem. It gave them both something to think about. Learning this poem and tapping it back and forth was an important part of the communication that was so vital in helping McCain and others survive torture and solitary confinement.Learning about McCain’s experience with poetry in prison, reading these words by Gwendolyn Brooks, and listening to the personal interpretations of others had such an impact on me. It reminded me of the power of poetry. No, remind is too weak a word–it lit a flare of awareness–a blaze of wonder– about the power of words to offer connection, to express pain, to kindle hope, to help us in our darkest times. It also reinforced for me the importance of taking time to dig into a poem, to consider each word and all its nuances and how this is the work of the poet and the reader.

The more I thought about Gwendolyn Brooks and the more I read and considered this poem, the more I thought of her as a sorceress, and her poem, an incantation. “I call for you…” Brooks carefully selected words and images to pour into her crucible and the resulting poem glows with power. It pulses with pain and potential triumph. It speaks to those who suffer in literal prisons, yet also speaks to those who suffer from other less tangible prisons–depression, abuse, etc.

This poem and McCain’s story still move in me, generating thoughts, connections, wonderings. They say that where there are poets, and where there is poetry, you’re never alone. Now that’s powerful magic.

This week Robyn Hood Black is rounding up the old fashioned way at her blog, Life on the Deckle Edge. Stop by to experience the power of poetry!

August 28, 2018 by mbhmaine

A Slice of Memory from the Shark Tank

11454297503_e27946e4ff_h It’s funny how memories pop up sometimes, emerging in full technicolor detail from the mists of the past. This happened to me just recently. I don’t even remember what I was doing at the time, but suddenly I was thinking about Lydia and the shark tank.

This happened years ago. We were in Boothbay Harbor, Maine at the small aquarium there. I’m not sure how old Lydia was–maybe 3? If so, Adeline would have been 5 and Connor, 7. We were thoroughly enjoying our visit to the aquarium, wandering through the displays, peering into fish tanks and trying out the interactive exhibits. I remember that in one area you reached your hand through a small circular opening into wooden boxes. Inside the box was a mystery object ,and you were supposed to try to figure out what it was. It took a bit of nerve, but we all enthusiastically thrust our hands into the dark hole and did our best to determine what was within. I can’t even remember what was in there–maybe shells? lobster claws? It’s all a bit fuzzy now, 17-18 years later. But what I do recall in full focus is the shark tank.

It was a circular tank in the middle of the room, fairly large and maybe 3 feet high. Swimming about in it were a number of sharks. I’m not sure what kind they were, but there was a sign inviting visitors to pet them, so I assumed they must be friendly. The kids were beyond excited at this opportunity. Kurt quickly helped Connor and Adeline get their hands in the water. They reached out to touch the circulating sharks, exclaiming loudly. Lydia was in my arms, pulling toward the tank. I moved closer, struggling to hold onto her as she stretched forward enthusiastically. When I had a firm hold on her, we edged into the side of the tank and she leaned over, her chubby hand trailing in the water, reaching toward the sharks. After a few minutes, finally a shark came by within reaching distance. Lydia stretched and just as her fingers were about to brush the shark, I jerked her back, startling both of us.

She looked at me in surprise, and honestly, I was just as surprised as she was.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” I said, laughing. “I didn’t mean to do that. Let’s try again!”

Lydia gave me one of her patented lowered-eyebrow glares, but thankfully turned her attention to the tank again. I repositioned us and we waited for another shark to approach. Within moments, one swam by. Lydia reached out and just as her fingers neared the shark, I once again jerked her away.

We tried this again a few more times, but I just couldn’t do it. It was the funniest thing. I was literally incapable of letting her hand touch that shark. Each time, no matter how hard I tried to let her touch the shark, at the last minute, I pulled her away. Finally, I handed a disgruntled Lydia off to Kurt.

“I just can’t do it,” I laughed.

Kurt and Lydia settled in by the tank and within moments a delighted Lydia had touched her first shark. I watched her face light up, thankful she had this experience. Still amazed that I hadn’t been able to let her have it. That bone-deep instinct to protect her was just way too strong for me to overcome. Let my toddler touch a shark? No way!

Remembering this now, as she enters her senior year in college, I think about protecting her and how this has changed over the years. I also wonder if there are other opportunities I denied her because of my instinct to keep her far from danger, real or perceived. These days I can’t simply hold her in my arms and pull her away from the sharks of the world. I can only let her know that she’s always welcome in my arms and that I’ll stand in between her and any sharks as necessary. I guess the thing is that now she’s the one who will be identifying those dangers, not me.

August 23, 2018 by mbhmaine

Color Poem and Poetry Swap

unnamed My last poetry swap of the summer arrived this past week and what a beauty it is! Jone Macculloch shared a picture of her west coast ocean with me, using a line from my recent east coast ocean sonnet to create an accompanying golden shovel poem. Her word choice and alliteration are delightful and her fabulous photo captures a heart in the surf. Really!? Isn’t it wonderful? IMG_2889 (2).jpg The color, celadon!, is just fabulous and one I probably couldn’t have named, but as soon as I read it, I recognized it. I’m also delighted that the photo is neatly tucked into a magnetic frame that now has a place of honor on my refrigerator, in the midst of some other treasures. Every time I see it, I think of the ocean’s splendor and of poetry connections across the country. Thanks so much, Jone, for ending my first poetry swap experience so beautifully!

Jone’s poem reminded me of a post by Heidi Mordhorst at My Juicy Little Universe way back in July. Heidi hosted the Poetry Friday Roundup and shared some recent PD experiences. One thing she shared was a wonderful color poem she’d written in response to this prompt: “We imagined that we had met a cloud of our favorite color on the street and taken a handful… ”

I had played around with this prompt some, but had forgotten about it until thoughts of celadon inspired me to look for it again. Here’s my draft response to the prompt:

Aubergine

Some call you dark purple
but I call you
aubergine
glamour surrounds you
a mysterious shadow
separating you from paler hues
Within your depths
black and purple
have kindled a new shade
warm yet regal
I reach my hand out to you
and feel a charge
startling, powerful
soft like plush ermine
hard like a faceted gem
Aubergine
we walk together
me at your heels
and I hear echoes of
late blooming lilacs
brushing against each other
in a spring tempest
their bruised blossoms
perfume the air

I think I’ll toy around with this a bit more and I may revisit this prompt again–maybe I’ll write about celadon! Thanks for the inspiration, Heidi and Jone! While I’m shouting out thanks, a huge one goes to Tabatha Yeatts for organizing the Summer Poetry Swap. It’s been a wonderful experience to participate, rewarding in so many ways. Thank you so much, Tabatha!

Poetry Friday this week is hosted by the inspirational Margaret Simon at Reflections on the Teche. Margaret has been very busy recently with all things wonderful associated with her newly published book, Bayou Song. This week she’s sharing a poetry swap poem she received and a poem she wrote. Both were inspired by other poems. Poems sparking more and more poetry! Gotta love that!

August 17, 2018 by mbhmaine

Chronicle of a Bird Encounter: Part Four: The Finale

Part 1 described how I took an injured fledgling in.
Part 2 ended with me debating about whether to release the bird before talking to an expert.
Part 3 described the release and recapture of the bird.

And now the finale…

After talking with the local volunteer, I offered to drive the bird to her home. I grabbed my purse and the carrier box and walked out to the car. Once there I put the box carefully on the front seat, talking to the bird all the while.

“It’s okay. You’re probably not going to like this, but it won’t last too long.”

I climbed in, started the car, turned on my audiobook and headed out. I deliberately chose to take the back roads, thinking that might be better than moving at high speed, especially since my AC is defunct and I’m driving with windows open. As the heat increased, I lowered the window further and turned up the audiobook a bit so I could hear it over the noise. Suddenly, I heard a rattling, vibrating sound.

Is that my phone? I checked. No.

The noise got louder. What is that? Is that my car? The audiobook? What?!? …

Oh, no! OMG, the sound is coming from the box! It’s the bird! In a sudden horrifying burst of insight, I realized I was bombarding the bird with stimulus–car ride, wind streaming through windows and loud audio book chatter. Quickly, I turned off the audiobook, and rolled up the windows.

“Oh, no! I’m so sorry!!!” I said. “I just didn’t think! That must have been horrible for you. So many noises and voices. I’m sorry!! I’m so sorry!”

“Shhhhh….shhhhhh….” I continued, awkwardly patting the cardboard container. Then, realizing that was probably stressing the bird out as well, I reluctantly moved my hand away and stopped talking.

The terrible noise continued for about a minute. It was like nothing I’d ever heard before. Then suddenly, it stopped. The car was silent.

I looked at the box.

Silence.

After a few minutes of continued silence, I began to fret.

OMG. Is it dead? Was that noise its death call? It sounded awful.

I glanced over at the box again.

“Are you okay in there?” I whispered.

No response.

Oh, no. I killed it. I totally stressed it out and now its dead. It probably had a bird heart attack. (Do birds even have heart attacks?) I’m going to arrive at the volunteer’s house with a dead bird in a box. I’m going to start crying on her doorstep. Poor bird. Poor volunteer.

I drove on, fingers gripping the steering wheel tightly, casting anxious side-long glances at the ominously silent box.

Finally, I arrived at the volunteer’s house. I pulled in the driveway and parked. I turned and looked at the box. I wanted to open it and check, but also didn’t. I sat for a minute. Staring at the box. Working up my courage. Taking a deep breath, I slowly reached over and moved the cardboard flaps, gently parting them so I could peek inside.

The bird sat, just where I had placed it, looking up at me. Clearly alive. I heaved a huge sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank goodness, you’re okay.”

I gathered up the shreds of my composure and the cat carrier, wiped the sweat off my brow, and headed up the path to the house.

The volunteer opened the door and invited me in. I set the carrier on the floor.

“Great,” she said. “Thanks. I’ll be taking it up to the center today with another bird. I’ll just set it up now with some food and water.”

This was clearly a cue for me to depart, but I hesitated, reluctant to leave.

“I know they take in lots of birds,” I said. “I guess they can’t let everyone know what happens…” I trailed off suggestively, hopefully.

“They’ve already cared for almost 1500 birds this year,” she replied matter-of-factly, not picking up on my hint, or ignoring it.

“Oh, well, um, can you at least tell if it’s a woodpecker?”

She pulled back the cardboard flaps and peeked in the box. “I’m pretty sure it is, but I’m not sure what kind,” she replied. “It’s hard to tell with fledglings. I’ll let you know if I find out when I drop it off.”

“Oh, thanks!”

I stood in her foyer for a moment longer. Finally, after saying goodbye out loud to the volunteer (and in my head to the bird), I slowly walked out the door. This felt so weird. After all the worry and wondering, it was now out of my hands. I got in my car and slowly drove away. It was odd knowing that I would probably never know what happened to the bird. After fully occupying my brain for the past 15 hours or so, now it was ….gone.

I never did hear from the volunteer again. I’ve considered calling the center to ask about the bird’s welfare, but I keep hearing the volunteer say “They’ve already cared for more than 1500 birds this year.” Clearly, they don’t need to spend their time answering curious, superfluous phone calls.

I still think about the bird a lot and about the whole experience, replaying it from the initial choice to intervene, to the moment I handed the bird over to the experts. Sometimes, perhaps more often than not, we never know the outcome of our actions. Over the course of this saga, I was plagued with indecision, operating well out of my areas of expertise. I could probably have made better choices along the way, but ultimately, with this one bird, on this one day, I tried to help and make a positive difference. I guess knowing that will have to be enough.

August 16, 2018 by mbhmaine

Bird Poetry and more Poetry Swap Goodies

Night heron at the Squam Lakes Natural Science Center in NH

I’ve been immersed in birds this summer. I’ve long enjoyed watching (and writing about) the birds at my feeders (here and here and lots of other places!). This year I’ve upped my interest and spent a considerable amount of time photographing birds (or at least trying to) and reading about them. (Note–If you’re looking for a fascinating non-fiction read, pick up The Feather Thief: Beauty, Obsession, and the Natural History Heist of the Century by Kirk Wallace Johnson.) This intensified bird interest has percolated through my life, emerging unexpectedly. For example, my responses to Laura Purdie Salas’s past three 15 Words or Less challenges have all centered on birds, regardless of the photo prompt! Here’s last week’s example, in response to this filtered photo of a fountain in Cyprus:

Photo credit to Laura Purdie Salas

Inspiration

Fledgling dreams
flutter
in smoldering ashes
From flames
Phoenix
rises
soars

Then this week I started to share my recent bird rescue adventure for my Slice of Life, and it evolved into a 4-part series! (If you’re interested, the first part is here.) In short, I’ve got birds on the brain, so Christie Wyman’s bird-related poem challenge felt like a natural fit.

Here are a couple of bird-related poems I’ve written recently:

Swallows

Swift swooping swallows
Wing through shadows
At dawn and dusk in a
Lively
Loop-de-loop
Of aerial predation
What a show!

Swallow and reflection–I’m still working on those action shots, darn it!

Then, back to another love of mine: Dandelions! Kat Apel, superstar Poetry Swapper, wrote a double reverse acrostic dandelion poem for me. What? I never even knew such a thing was possible! Stunning! I read it again and again, awed by this poetic feat. She makes it all sound so natural and fluid, yet manages to stay within that insanely ambitious structure! Then, to top it off, she presents it with a delightful photo and all sorts of playful fonts. A visual feast as well!

dandelion double reverse acrostic (1).jpg

Kat also included a wonderful assortment of photo postcards–Beautiful pictures with often humorous friendship quotes. Another big “YES!” for the Summer Poetry Swap. Thanks so much, Kat!

postcard assortment (1).jpg

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Christie Wyman whom I recently met in real life! We crossed paths in July at the Heinemann Teacher Tour in Portsmouth, NH. Before that (and since then) I’ve spent loads of time enjoying her writing at her blog, Wondering and Wandering. Stop by to enjoy the flock of poems that have flown in for today’s gathering!

August 16, 2018 by mbhmaine

Chronicle of a Bird Encounter: Part Three

Part 1 describes how I took an injured fledgling in.
Part 2 ended with me debating about whether to release the bird before talking to an expert.

Now the story continues…

Hoping for a happy-ending story, but feeling a bit guilty for proceeding without expert advice, I picked up the box and carried it outside. (By the way, I have a hard time explaining why I didn’t wait. I’m kind of embarrassed. I think I convinced myself the bird was suffering in the box and ready to soar into the sky. If I were reading this scene in a book, I’d be yelling at the protagonist–“Don’t do it! Just wait!” But somehow I managed to drown out that little voice in my own mind.)

Kneeling beneath the birch tree, I opened the box and tilted it slightly toward the grass. In an instant the bird had hopped out. It flapped its wings.

“Come on, little guy! You can do it!” I said, stepping back to give it a bit of space.

Instead of flying though, the bird hop-flapped across the driveway and the yard until it reached the shelter of the trees.

It then hopped on to a tree and started climbing. Ok, Yes! This might work. I was feeling cautiously optimistic. Until… a few inches up the tree, the bird stopped moving.
“Come on!” I encouraged the bird. “You can do it! Just keep on climbing!” After a few minutes it was the clear that the bird was not going to climb higher. I decided to give it some space and check back in a few minutes. I walked back inside and checked my phone. Sure enough, there were not one, but two messages on my phone from Avian Haven.

Ugh. I should have waited.

Feeling guilty, I called back. Again, I got the recorded message. This time as I left my message, a call beeped in. Avian Haven! I answered, relieved to finally speak with an expert. In a garbled gush, I confessed to releasing the bird and asked for advice. The volunteer was kind and reassuring, but based on what I described, she wondered if the bird might have a fractured wing. Apparently birds can still flap with a fractured wing, but aren’t able to fly.

While talking to her, I walked back out to check on the bird. It was still a few inches up from the base of a tree. After discussing options, we agreed that I would try to capture it. Then if I could recapture the bird, she would get me in touch with a nearby volunteer who was already planning to drive it up to the center later that day.

I lined the cat carrier with an old towel (No, birds can’t smell. I’d asked.) and per her instructions, grabbed a soft, old T-shirt. This was going to be interesting. I approached the edge of the yard and put down the carrier. The bird was right where I’d left it. I slowly stepped toward the tree and the bird scrabbled around the trunk and out of sight.

“Hey, buddy, don’t worry! It’s okay. I’m going to get you some help.”

I continued a run of reassuring comments, but each time I approached, the bird scuttled to the opposite side of the tree trunk. It peeked around the edge of the trunk, eyeing me with suspicion. We moved back and forth. Back and forth. Eventually I had to laugh–that eye!

But even though I saw the humor in the situation, I was increasingly worried. How am I going to catch this guy? Along with that worry came the weight of responsibility. I should have waited to let him go.

After a bit of thought, I carefully gathered the T-shirt in one hand and reached my other hand high around the tree trunk to grasp it. I couldn’t see the bird now, but I slowly lowered the shirt toward where I hoped the bird was. With a loud shriek the bird dropped off the trunk and started hopping away in the dense underbrush. Great! I pursued, maintaining a flow of one-sided conversation with the bird (“Come on! I’m trying to help!”) and ultimately, after some creative underbrush maneuvering, low-level cursing, and good luck, within a few minutes I managed to capture it.

When I lifted it up, holding it within my T-shirt, it immediately started shrieking again. Oh, no! Am I hurting it? I held my hands cupped around the bird, careful not to exert any pressure, but determined to keep it within my grasp. Wow! What a racket! I looked overhead warily, expecting irate bird parents to dive bomb me in response to their offspring’s clear distress. Then, quickly and gently, I deposited the bird in the carrier.

Success! Now to get the bird to Avian Haven!

to be continued…

Nix the comfort zone

Pushing my limits…writing, reading, photography, running, life…