Flight Plans

I stopped by my storage unit this weekend. I’m in a short term rental until this shelter-in-place is lifted and I can properly search for a new apartment in Baltimore. This rental is okay and my needs are met. I’m in Fells Point and I can walk and bike most places. But I can’t begin to describe the unsettled feeling that comes from being advised to stay home and yet not be home. I thought if I grabbed some things from storage, like scented candles, books, and a blanket, that I could bring some comfort inside these walls.

I typed in my code to enter the building and the sliding door squeaked open. Before stepping over the threshold I looked down. There was a clump of feathers just sitting there by the entryway. I peered closer and oh no! It’s a little baby bird.

I can’t see its face, it looks still. “Please don’t be dead” I whispered. I looked up to see if there were any nests under the pergola, but there was nothing. Seeing an injured baby animal makes me long for my mother to be within arms reach, just like back in the day with me in the backyard and mom in the kitchen humming a tune while peering out the window. But she's miles away and also sheltered in place. We are separate for survival. She would know what to do.

I remember the few times I stumbled upon an injured bird or wild bunny in my youth.“Mom, we have to save it” my siblings and I would beg, sometimes between tears. She was always so gentle. She would find a shoebox and cut little breathing holes into it. Then she would carefully scoop the timid animal inside. It’s eyes always wide and heart racing, it’s little body frozen from fear. We would watch in awe, taking turns peering into the box to make sure it was still breathing. Mom would call around to local animal shelters and clinics to see if one could take it or offer help. She always told us it would be okay.

But who do you call for a stranded little bird when you’re in the middle of a pandemic and everything is closed? “Please don’t be dead,” I whispered again. A silent prayer. “There is no one I can call to help you.”

I grabbed my items from storage and when I returned to the doorway, the little bird was right where I left him, except this time his head was untucked from his wing so I could see his big dark eyes. He’s alive! He was a medley of soft brown feathers on top and a white underbelly. But he was just sitting there. I was right beside him and he did not move.

A second fear took hold. “Are you injured?” I asked, and yes three weeks of isolation will have you talking to animals, so let’s just pretend this is a Disney movie and keep it moving.

He did not chirp or reply. “Oh man, what are we going to do?”

I slowly started loading my car with my things. Really I was stalling. It’s Sunday, it’s 11:45AM. If the main office of the storage building was considered essential business, they would open at 12noon. I could wait around and alert them to this little injured bird on their property. They would know what to do, right?

I walked back over to the bird to tell him about my plan. He cocked his head a little and then surprised me by jumping to his feet. I stumbled back just as he took flight and whizzed by. It was a clumsy flight at best, barely above car level, but I decided to keep my eye on him just in case. He’s new at this. "You have wings but you don’t know how to use them," I thought. He circled around, jagged rises and dips, until gradually he landed on the top of the pergola, where I assume his nest must be. Where I assume his family is celebrating his flight lesson and his return to safety. Where I’m certain his mother is waiting.