A gold
finch must have hit the sunroom window this morning, for it sat stunned on the
porch, making no effort to flee when I stepped out to investigate. The poor
thing was soaking wet from a cold misty rain, its mottled yellow feathers wet
through against its body. These same feathers were a brilliant yellow only a
few weeks ago, but like the successional change of the deciduous trees, the
colors were fading to their more drab winter coat.
Sarah
and I lined a small box with tissue, picked up the little bird and placed it
inside, taking both to the garage where I had set up a can light to shine
within for warmth.
We
watched it for twenty minutes as it lay stunned, with beak opening and closing
rhythmically, eyes tiny black blinking slowly. All of a sudden, it moved
quickly, spreading its wings as if to escape, only to follow with one sudden
shudder. Its eyes closed, and it went still, and we both cried at the failure
of our effort.
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