It had stopped raining. The summer storm had settled too. And my little young friend the winged one with the big courageous heart flies over and says hello before settling on a branch, all buffed up and starts twittering without catching its breath between each note, telling me all about the wild storm the night before. It’s very first storm. I was relieved and grateful this little winged one had made it through the night unharmed.
It was so late in the night that the calendar date had changed to a new day. I heard a loud crash against my window. On the window sill outside in the pouring rain and wild winds sat a little baffled bird. Much to its own surprise, I am sure, this very bird then spends the rest of the night dry and safe in my living room, in my cats carrier of all places, with water and food and a branch to sit on. I feared it was my little friend. I didn’t know if it was injured or if it even would make it through the night. Yet, instead of checking, I found the best chance I can think up in the middle of the night for it to pull through is for it to be gently embraced by the dark of night and quiet shelter under my roof. Half an hour later another little bird hits the window. Out with me again, before my fierce hunter cat gets there. I was out of cat carriers, so this time I opened the shed door, keeping it dark and release the bird there to stay dry and safe or fly out again. I don’t know which it chose. I woke again at break of dawn and quietly opened the door to the room with the carrier, hoping that there is still life within it. In the now stormless morning, I brought the carrier outside in the fresh Burren morning air and opened it. Waiting. I didn’t have to wait long. Out flew a bird on strong wings, aiming straight for the crown of the nearest tree, relieved to be free. It was a chaffinch.
My heart bounced.