THE OLIVE THRUSH About a year ago,
My beloved brother-in-law,
Gerard,
Brought me a small,
Fragile little creature.
Nestled in a makeshift box lined with leaves and twigs,
The little one seemed so delicate and new to the world.
Gerard,
A remarkable man,
Known for his strength and creativity,
A farmer,
Had discovered the little baby in the clutches of their pet Alsatian,
Sasha,
A very energetic young canine that somehow tenderly guarded the sparsely feathered frail fledgling.
Despite his tough exterior,
Gerard has a tender heart for animals,
And he knew exactly where to bring any creature in need.
Our home was a sanctuary for all lost and injured animals.
Over the years,
I had become known for my nurturing care,
Giving these creatures a chance at life.
Yet,
Not all survived,
And each loss was a quiet sorrow.
With the arrival of a new critter,
Time slows it down,
And we seem suspended,
Together on an epic quest,
A yearning for survival,
A divine calling to choose life.
By no means is it a task I take lightly.
Research is extensively done upon meeting the new baby,
Not always clear exactly which family they belong to,
But we figure it out,
And with it feeding and hydrating begins.
Most importantly,
Someone who cares enough to put everything else on hold and to focus on the task at hand.
This particular one was,
At a glance,
Reminiscent of a Cape Robin,
But in all honesty,
They are quite abundant little birds,
And very much loved by this one.
As time went by,
It was clear it was an olive thrush,
Which still bore its yellow egg-tooth,
A reminder of its recent emergence into the world.
Feeding it was a delicate process,
Requiring patience and tenderness.
It was pretty scared,
Quite understandably,
But hunger was a bigger problem,
So when I would get close,
Its little beak would open wide,
Ready to receive.
I mushed up seeds and some watered-down egg yolk and administered the sustenance with a dropper.
Gradually the thrush learned to eat,
And with each meal,
It gained strength.
At night,
I wrapped the little bird snug in its box with one of my woollen scarves.
Together we slept by the warmth of the fire,
The thrush's chest gently rising and falling with each tiny breath.
The cats watched curiously,
But I kept them at bay,
Ensuring the bird's safety.
As days turned into weeks,
The thrush grew bolder.
It began to hop around its box,
Then onto the table,
And eventually down to the chairs and floor.
Outside,
The weather mirrored the chilly,
Rainy season of the previous year.
The wind howled against the windows of our thatched-roof house,
And I built a fire to keep us warm.
The thrush learned to fly,
First in small bursts around the house,
Favoring the salon with its cozy fireplace and the conservatory with its lush hanging plants.
The cats ceased their chasing,
As the little bird could now escape to the tops of curtains and high shelves.
Occasionally a few items were knocked over,
But I didn't mind.
It was all part of the process.
One chilly day,
The thrush ventured down to the fire,
Drawn by its warmth.
It would spread out its wings and just lie there by the fire.
It enjoyed the warmth greatly.
I had a window open at a crack,
Giving it a chance to at least see the outside,
Go out if it felt like it.
I wasn't going to keep it locked up forever.
It was very rainy,
And it actually flew out,
But it soon returned.
It enjoyed sitting with me by the fire,
And so it would be hopping in and out,
Flying around a little bit,
Coming back,
Going out.
We could take things slow.
I prepared gruel of cat kibbles and water,
And it quickly became the thrush's favorite meal,
Much to the dismay of the cats.
Despite its plain,
Unremarkable plumage,
The thrush had a beautiful song.
The man of the house would whistle an old country tune,
And the bird would respond it kind,
Much to his delight.
As the thrush grew,
It began to attract the attention of other birds in the garden.
Its dull appearance and sweet song led me to believe it was a female,
A lady bird,
If you will,
Not to be confused with the insect.
She spent more time outside,
Mingling with her new friends,
Only returning occasionally for a treat.
The nearby olive orchard became her new home,
But that is a tale for another time.
She would still whistle to the man of the house,
Their melodies echoing through the garden,
A sweet reminder of her presence.
In the end,
The earth mother succeeded in sending the little thrush back to the wild,
Where she belonged.
Her garden was forever open to her feathered friend,
And with a gentle goodnight,
The story came to a close.
Hope is the Thing with Feathers by Emily Dickinson Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all.
And sweetest in the gale is heard,
And sweetest in the air.
The soul must be the storm,
That could have bashed the little bird that kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land and on the strangest sea,
Yet never in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Thank you earth for giving us these creatures.
By near day,
I thought if it wasn't for nature,
I would not be here still.
Thank you,
Much love,
Until we meet again.
