Last night when we came home the porch was dark, but the lights were on inside. Opening the door, we came into the hall and felt a sudden confusion of wings overhead as something dark came in with us. A bat, my husband said, or a bird. Inside the living room we saw it was a bird, a grey-winged, pale-breasted phoebe, one of the pair that nests here each year. She was bright-eyed and anxious, balancing nervously on a lampshade by the fireplace. I told my husband to go upstairs so I could do something, but the phoebe followed him, lofting up into the darkness of the stairwell. I thought shed gone up to the third floor, and searched those rooms, but shed gone into the second-floor bathroom. I went in and shut the door and then opened the window wide. It made a deep black rectangle onto the night, but she fluttered at the other end of the room, frightened. Over here, I said, and moved toward her. She passed above me, watching, her black eyes brilliant with fear, her grey wings fluttering in the tiny space. Over there, I said, almost whispering, stepping toward her again. Outside, outside, I whispered. She fluttered desperately up to the ceiling for a moment, and then, dropping down, suddenly understood the open dark rectangle, and lifted her wings and flew into the night.
Posted on: Sun, 20 Apr 2014 17:26:10 +0000
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