Article October 3, 2011 Issue

‘Like brother birds’

A starling serves up a lesson on individuality and valuing each person’s worth.

By James Corbett

It was an awkwardly cute little thing. It fell out of an opening in the eave above my patio. But what was I to do with a newborn baby bird? It had unavoidably somersaulted into my life. And now I felt obliged to feed it, keeping it nearby in its cardboard box even during an all-day conference.

As my avian ward grew (surprisingly fast), we spent hours together in a friend’s backyard. I did office work while it hopped about inspecting everything in the gardens. It watched older birds forage for food and began imitating their methods. But having already adopted a human parent, it still expected me to stuff it with edibles while perching on my forefinger. 

When it reached the age of about three weeks, I placed it on a branch in a magnolia tree overnight, thinking that now it might join its own species. No, there it was next morning, waiting for me. Obviously more training was in the offing. Though it was quite the juvenile among other neighborhood fledglings fumbling toward maturity, it was time my downy adoptee learned to fly. Periodically I would cup it in my hands, tenderly toss it in the air, and it would flutter to the ground. Each time its trip to earth lengthened. On its last assisted journey, I heaved it energetically toward the sky, and in that one transforming moment it found its independence. Off it soared, winging like a pro above distant housetops until it became a tiny dot in the sky. Then, it vanished from sight. But not from my heart.