It gets quiet in the evening and stays light so long now after supper. Then I cut grass, or pull sow thistle and lambs quarters for pigs at a garden edge.
I was doing this and the pigs appreciated two more five gallon pails late in the evening. One has a straight tail which she wags when I dump greens while they both flip through their really big salad, eating noisily.
I returned the pails to the edge of the shade garden, where I cut greens for morning chores. It wasn’t a pleasant sound that I heard then, just persistent, calling like it expected to be heard. So I went to it, finding a baby bird fallen from its nest, with pin feathers and fuzz with naked sections.
The creature was so ugly, I couldn’t identify what kind of bird it was.
Farmer says it better not be a grackle. He hates those. Whatever it is, I’ve decided to love it just like I love him.
It had fallen into a small raised bed I planted vegetables in, and fenced off from the hen run. I opened the gate, picked it up and as I walked towards the house, passed a hunting barn cat who would have undoubtedly taken care of the fallen guff, if I hadn’t found it first.
I know a woman who nursed such a wild bird until it grew up, and was released back into the wild. Whether I’ll be that lucky or not remains to be seen. She fed her little one canned cat food.
I don’t buy that stuff, and since my eldest daughter cleaned us out of canned chicken last time she visited, I had to dig worms and cut them up. Its huge gaping mouth opened wide, ready to eat.
These days there is a lot to take care of here already, but I’m sure the kids will be thrilled to find another animal at the breakfast table. That’s where Birdie sits, nesting in a deep bowl lined with a soft rag, sleeping. Birdie is hardly a flight risk, but at first light I expect it will begin demanding room service in the same tone it used when I happened to find it.
Perhaps Birdie will imprint on me and become a communist or turn out to be a grackle or die before morning. Treasure, it seems, is always a surprise.