A little bird fell off a tree

Small, frail and cold, it shivered. I took it. In the shell of my hands I protected it. I brought it home. I sheltered it from the rain, from the cold, from the wind that brought it down. Its big eyes stared at me. "Am I dying?", "Is there hope?", they questioned. I poured tiny drops of water. They slipped from my fingertips. Its frail beak took them avidly. I fed it the best I could.

"Forget it! You can never save it!", friends would have said, had friends been given the chance. They were not! I was determined to make the bird survive. I could not take any more loss, I could not take any more death. I decided, omnipotently, it would not die, just like I once decided I would not die.

It did not! It did not die! It survived! And I set it up on a tree when it seemed stronger. It showed no recollection of the rain, of the cold, of the wind. No gratitude in its eyes. It was not needed. No fear of the vastness either. The vastness had always been his birthright as a bird, I guess.

Uncertain of its fate, unsure of its possibilities, I knew there was hope now. Perhaps it would fly high, perhaps it would go far. I had done what I could, I told myself as I turned around, as I walked away. I had done all I could for the little bird that fell from the tree.

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