The first killing frost has passed and our eastern Indian Summer has arrived. Folklore has it that this stretch of warm weather predictably arrives on or about October 18th, the Feast of St. Luke. The natural world heads into dormancy while it marks the last kick-at-the-can for us northern hemisphere humans to romp semi-clothed, to store up the sun’s healing rays until spring.
I wouldn’t have seen her if I hadn’t been outside in the unseasonable warmth, if I hadn’t bent over by the dogwoods to search the underbrush for the rustle I thought I heard. She was there, hopping through the leaves and low branches, a tiny wisp of a bird whose wings didn’t seem to work well. I followed her gently and scooped her up in my palms. She peered up at me – calmly I thought – from her tiny bird-cave.
We hastily set up the old guinea cage, lining it with small branches and forest litter. I picked berries and fetched some outdoor birdseed from my friend up the road. Birdie climbed the walls, desperately looking for a way out.
Husband brought the cage inside at dusk and she tucked in her head and fell asleep. At dawn I opened the patio doors so she could feel a part of her real world. The littlest kids circled all morning, dying to hold her as I had. The cats circled, swishy-tailed and curious.
We know it’s not optimal for a wild creature to be with humans. But at least she is safe from the feral cats and we’re delighted with the magic of such an unexpected gift.