The Baby Bird

I am at my dad's place in the woods. He comes in from letting the dog out and says, come here, motioning for me to get my shoes on. His apartment is above his landlord's garage, an old mechanic's outfit. I follow him down the stairs, into the garage, and look out the square window in the door. There is a baby bird on the wood plank entryway. There is a nest in the eaves of the entryway covering. My dad has been watching the baby bird's parents bring it bugs for a few days. The baby bird is the size of a golf ball, and as round. It is fully feathered in a fuzzy coat. Its head is a gum ball on top of the golf ball body, out of which juts a tiny yellow beak. He is chirping steadily, cheep, cheep, cheep. I am here. See me Mom? Dad? He does not move. Maybe he can't yet. He just sits and chirps. Did he fall? Was he pushed out? Was he on the edge of the nest and took the leap himself? Did he feel ready? We ask these questions knowing we will never get them answered. 

My dad wonders if we should do something. I say the thing I heard as a kid about not touching baby birds, that the parents will reject them. But I grew up with my mom, so maybe my dad never heard that same thing. We go inside and check online. We learn he is a fledgling and probably in his natural leave-the-nest stage of development. We feel a little better. Except he is so small and there are snakes and two dogs on the property. And other, wilder things. 

We go back to check on him many times throughout the day, reporting to each other where he is now, on the grass; in a divot where the dog peed. The parents are still near. The bird still chirps. It starts to rain. He won't make it, my dad says. I was never like this before, he says, I am worried about that bird. He wonders if he should put the old cat box cover over the bird for shelter. But then we wonder what if his parents can't find him? We decide to do nothing, because that's what we read online. And because the parents are near. Don't intervene. Even though we want to believe otherwise, we know this is right. Even though we know his chances are not good. 

It pours all night. Thunderstorm. In the morning, from the garage door window, I see the parents taking bugs to the nest in the eaves. I see a little yellow beak open to receive the sustenance. I run upstairs to tell my dad. Maybe he is okay! Later, my dad takes the dog out to pee and tells me our baby bird is dead. On its back, little toothpick legs sticking straight out, in the last place we saw him. I think it drowned, my dad says. We are sad and guilty. I go out to see for myself. I am sorry baby bird, I am so sorry, I tell him. We wish we had done something.