On Thanksgiving morning, a loud thump on the kitchen window drew our attention from the breakfast table to the young tufted titmouse that had just crashed and hit the deck. His rapid wing flaps made us think he wasn't long for this world. I grabbed a jacket and hurried out, scooping the poor thing up and trying to will him to live.
Our relationship with the tufted titmice at our place has had a bit of a checkered history. They always delighted us until last spring, when they robbed nesting material from the Carolina wren's nest on the front porch, and caused the wrens to move away. After that, we looked at the marauding titmice in a somewhat different light. Real life doesn't always follow the Walt Disney script.
When the fledglings came along--four wide-eyed darlings who spent their mornings near our kitchen window, entertaining us with their camaraderie and frequent trips from tree to feeder, they quickly won our hearts back. After all, who doesn't love babies?
That morning, I held the fallen titmouse for a long time, and when I could no longer justify postponing the Thanksgiving dinner preparations, I put out a warming cloth, and on top of it, shaped an old towel into a makeshift shelter for the little one.
I kept checking back during the morning, and the last time I looked, the little bird was gone. It seemed to be a hopeful sign. Sure enough, for the next two mornings, all four of the small siblings have been at the feeder, and they are all so active, it is impossible to know which one of them was hurt.
When we were sitting on the deck, me in a chair, and the baby bird in my hand, we had a little talk, and I told him not to ever rob another bird's nesting material, and to come and visit me when he got better.
I hope he remembers.
Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday