One Small Victory

THUD.

The sound broke the silence of the library. It was a noise I think we all would recognize - that sickening thump of a live thing hitting a window.

I hurried over, grimacing at the smear of downy feathers on the glass, a few still drifting down as I watched. I leaned over the ledge and peered down. Sure enough, there she was, lying between the bushes below the window. She was almost as large as a robin, black and white with a long, narrow beak - a woodpecker of some kind.  She was lying on her back, her legs twitching, slowly opening and closing her beak.

Our library is right by a lake, its large windows looking out over the water, and birds swoop by all the time, intent on feeding and busy with nest building. Does she have young somewhere nearby? Is her mate minding them while she feeds?

What a shame, I thought, shaking my head, and I went back to my work. There's nothing I can do. But I kept seeing that laboring beak, those staring eyes. I went back to look again. Still alive, stunned or dying.

There are people who'd say, so what? The world is full of dying things, and people matter more, don't they?  What's one more small thing? Let it die, they'd say.  

No, I told myself. Do the next right thing.

There are good souls who tend to injured creatures, and I found the number and called and explained.

"Give her time," said the wildlife worker.  "She may just be stunned. Be gentle; approach her from behind so you don't frighten her.  If she lives and doesn't revive soon, wrap her in a towel, put her in a cardboard box and bring her to me."

I peered out the window again. She was still alive, at least; still lying on her back, moving her legs a bit; out there, though, she was easy prey, or likely to die of the cold and shock without help.

I approached the front desk and told the librarian what had happened. "Oh no!", she exclaimed, concerned. She hurried to find me just the right sized box.

I waited a bit, and then I crept round the back of the building, counting off the windows, approached her carefully, slowly, staying far back. There she was, but now she was sitting up!  I breathed a sigh of relief. A good sign.

She was stocky, slate grey, with a long, narrow beak and an elegant black band around her neck, with a top flourish of feathers that quivered in the breeze - a hairy woodpecker.  We looked at each other, her eyes bright and steady. "You look better," I whispered. "I'm so glad."   

I called back. "That's great!" she said. "Keep an eye on her."

So later, still, I came back. But as I walked up to the window, she shot out from hiding, gliding effortlessly away into the dusk. I stood and looked after her, and let my heart follow her into the night.

Some would say, I'm sure, what a fool you are. Look at you, wasting your time, worrying about a stupid bird!

But in a weary world, one small bird flies out into the dusk, returning to its nest. It escaped death today, to survive and face tomorrow.

I took a deep breath and turned to face the water. Turned my face to the rising wind, watching the waves ripple, and tilted my head back to watch the clouds turning golden in the sunset.

I think most of us, if we have the chance, would rather do the right thing. We do it all the time, come to think of it; holding doors, saying thank you, reading the news even when it hurts, clicking the donate button, trying to stay patient even when we're tired and discouraged. We help, take a little time to give, and we do what we can, even if it's just a little, to keep the light on in our little corner of the world.

Let's keep caring, and as we keep walking through these dark times, stay close together and help each other find the way.