In the packed gray dirt beside the back steps of my new homeplace, I noticed an ovoid shape. Mottled gray green with sharp points at one end and two white spots at the other, the shape, when I knelt down for a closer look, proved to be a tiny bird. I watched the little thing, which was about 3 ½ inches long from the twin needles of its bill to the tail with two white spots, then went back into the house. I grabbed my camera and told my daughter, “Come outside. Bring Myah. I have something wonderful to show you.”
Last July, I wrote of visiting my New Jersey grandchildren and finding that Carolina wrens had nested beneath their balcony. I told my granddaughter Imani (and her mother, Lisa) that at some point, they were likely to find the birds on the ground, but they should not be overly concerned; fledglings often end up on the ground during their first attempts at flight. My neighborhood association social media page often has comments by people looking for help because they have found birds on the ground. My daughter, Lauren, holding my granddaughter Myah, told me excitedly, “Dad! It’s panting! It’s hot!” I did not reach out to eleven thousand strangers with unknown qualifications but posted a photo of the bird on an ornithologist’s social media page, asking for help.
I met Wesley Homoya (a.k.a. “The Birdman of Indianapolis”) in the tasting room of the cidery that his brother owns. I have discussed birds and birding with him, been on a birding expedition and participated in “Bird Trivia” at the cidery. I gave him the circumstances under which I had found the bird and my plans to assist it. He responded immediately: “call me.”
Wes reiterated the response that he had posted on his page, that the bird was a baby hummingbird, too young to be fledging. He recommended that I call a bird rehabber he knew and sent me the contact number. I called the number and spoke to a man (the rehabber’s husband) who reinforced Wes’ instructions to me: put the baby bird in a small box, close the lid and get it into a cool place. The man added that I should bring the bird to the rehabber, a 36-mile journey. My car is currently non-functioning, so I called my friend — this publication’s Paula Nicewanger — and borrowed her chariot to drive to a place of wings and wonder.
The lower floor of the rehabber’s house was filled with small birds in cages and dominated by a great black free-flying one-legged bird: Edgar Allen Crow. The rehabber gently lifted the “hummer” from the box in which I had transported it, prepared a syringe of some fluid, and closed her hand around the bird. The hummingbird’s head poked from her hand as it fed on the liquid in the syringe, and when the rehabber determined that the bird was “full,” she placed it into a small plastic cage. “This is the three-hundred thirty-eighth bird I’ve received so far this year,” she explained as she logged my name and the location of where the bird was found. “I have to report this to the state and the federal government,” in compliance with the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918. Twits, chirps and squeaks sounded throughout the rehabber’s kitchen and another room nearby. Once she had my bird in a comfortable place, she gathered food and went to “feed birds until I fall into bed.”
Later that night, I sent a text to Wes Homoya: “Bird has been safely delivered to the Underground Birdway.”
cjon3acd@att.net
