Fledgling
Susan Kraft
Word Count 701
One morning in late Spring, as we were rushing back from a walk, Sugar Magnolia spotted a small Blue Jay flailing on the gravel driveway. She didn't strain the leash, as she might have with a squirrel or cat, but instead she stood still; complete attention. Ears raised and eyes serious, she repeatedly looked at the bird and back at me; What are you going to do?
Surely, I thought, it will be okay. I have no idea how to help a bird. And it was already time to log on for my Zoom meditation group, "Put your Tush on the Cush.” I pulled Maggie inside.
Place your mind on the breath. Notice when it departs. Gently re-place it.
The little blue bundle of feathers kept pulling me off my breath. What am I supposed to do? These words went up like a prayer. Afterwards I had a 15-minute gap before my first yoga student so I checked the driveway. Blue had moved a few inches toward the side of the house and was contorted into a new unhappy shape. He was on his back now, chest heaving.
This was too much. Clearly, he was not going to be okay. I ran inside and started googling and calling. After at least ten strikes I found a vet who would help. I texted a photo and learned that Blue’s round body and downy head indicated a fledgling. He had probably met with an accident while learning to fly. The prognosis wasn't good.
I was instructed to use a tea towel to pick him up and to place him in a shoe box with air holes. "Are you comfortable doing that?" the vet's assistant asked. No, of course not, I thought, I’m from fucking Brooklyn, I am not comfortable with any of this. "Absolutely!" I said.
Back outside, I saw that Blue had struggled into a new awful position. The towel technique was impossible. Through the thick cloth I could just sense his delicate bones, a soft little whisper of life. Was I crushing him? Hurting him?
I tossed the empty cloth inside the box and ran to the kitchen for rubber gloves. I nestled my hands gently around his body and shifted him safely. I closed the box and placed it on the shady porch. "Be good, Baby Blue" I whispered. My always-prompt yoga student was in the Zoom waiting room. Panting, I clicked him in.
Inhale. Exhale completely. Radiate calm...even, or especially, if you don't feel it. This was familiar.
An hour later I flew out the front door, slamming it in poor Maggie's face. I scooped up the box, fast-glided to the car and set him on the passenger seat. I peeked inside. BB was very still. Maybe the dark had calmed him down, maybe he was in shock, or maybe it was simply too late. I talked to him anyway and asked him to hold tight, to please survive. I drove way more quickly than I am comfortable and played the Lucinda Williams' album Good Souls, Better Angels. I sang along to the beautiful "When the Way gets Dark," hoping it might comfort him. I sent Reiki, Metta and every other good energy I could.
Finally we made it to a ramshackle country road and a tumble down building. A kind receptionist took the box and told me to call her in the late afternoon. And so I left. Empty-handed. My heart, which had puffed so big, fell flat. Still, he was lodged in it all day.
When I finally called, the kind receptionist told me, very gently, that he hadn't made it. "His internal injuries were bad. I'm so sorry. There is nothing you could have done."
I hung up and noticed the slanting shadows. The dog was stretched out between them. I paused and felt my ragged breathing. I didn't think I would be okay with this ending, but somehow I was.
I still have BB's photo on my phone. It's beautiful. And really sad. From the room that I teach I can see the tree from which he must have fallen. Blue Jays visit often. I wonder if one of them is missing him too.
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Susan is a writer, and a yoga and mindfulness teacher, living in North Carolina. She is working on a memoir about leaving her lifelong home of New York City; a new beginning filled with endings. sk-yoga.com