Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Lesser Goldfinch (photos)

I hold them to treat them for shock, the hollow of my hand is warm, dark, and safe. I can feel their racing hearts slow down, then it's time to let them go—yes, about 30 minutes. But for 30 minutes, I get to witness something amazing, as they relax, and begin to recover, they watch you and check you out. We are at one in that moment. 

This little guy hit the window so hard, he was out cold for 30 minutes. His heart was racing so fast, I thought he would surely die of heart failure. He took much longer to recover. I watched him come around. My arm was killing me, but when he was ready, he took off. OK, so I had to nudge his sorry ass into gear, he was parked in my palm for the duration. Does anybody know what kind of bird he is?

If a critter needs rescuing, I tend to be the one to do it. Me and Mr. Mallard—he was caught up in fishing line, and beating me off with his powerful wings (very Leda and the swan), so I flipped him upside down—he went comatose (good way to calm chickens too), and I was able to cut the filament off his legs.

Finch: that much I know (the beak)—but he's a yellow-green one. Not quite ripe? I have not written about the fawn I rescued from a malamute, it died in my arms. Rich, thick blood covering my arms. I wanted to kill that dog. I was 19. But somewhere, buried in that story, is the original impulse for my becoming a writer, I just had to wait until I was 30 for it to jell. Bearing witness.

I once rescued a stranded mola-mola. Huge slippery baby fish the size of a manhole cover. He had issues with calculating time and tide.

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