The midday light cast dark shadows and some leaves lifted and swirled in the breeze. On the shade dappled asphalt near the center line I noticed something ahead; I thought it was a leaf. A small brown leaf. And then it hopped. I thought it was a large tree frog, but then realized no, it's a baby bird. In the middle of the road. I stopped the car, flashed my hazards, and when I approached the little form, it opened its mouth wide.

My parents nicknamed me Bird when I was a baby. It is still their term of affection for me.

I picked the small papery brown downy creature up in my left palm. I considered setting it in the grass beside the road, but then heard the blue jays screaming and thought it would be more merciful to simply leave it in the road for tires to crush. Instead I held it in my hand, and drove to my work.

It was so small it fit snug in the palm of my left hand and I could enclose it by crossing my thumb over its back, forming an O with thumb and middle finger. It had grey and brown soft downy feathers, the tip of its tail was bright yellow. It was so bright, I thought it was part of the center stripe on the road until I picked up the birdling. The very tips of its wings had tiny filaments of shocking red, barely perceptible, a promise of flashing flight as an adult. I could feel its quick fluttery heartbeat, too fast to count, hundreds of beats per minute. In the warmth of my hand it closed its eyes. I remember my Grandma telling me God watches us through the eyes of little birds. What then if its eyes are closed, and it has nestled in my palm?

At work all the ladies said oooh and awww and helped me find the number for the wildlife rescue center, and gave me a small box to carry it in. The bird didn't want to leave my hand, and wrapped its strong small talons around my finger. I nudged it gently into the box and then we went on our way. The little puff of feathers watched me carefully with bright eyes as I drove, and then it pooped out what looked like digested blackberries, which are abundant near the river. Perfect birdie food. With a stretch and flutter of its tiny wings it tried to hop out of the small box, so when I came to a stop sign I moved the box from the seat beside me to the floor.

I can't imagine the fatigue and stress and fear of falling from the nest, and then being abducted by some huge creature. Exhausted, it lay down in its small box, and I could see its frail body panting. It let out a pitiful trilling call once, twice, which I heard with my heart and all my maternal instincts went wild. Hold on baby, I thought.

The woman who greeted me at the wildlife rescue center was very surprised about the size of the baby bird, and said it is late in the season for such a young chick. I asked her what kind of bird is it, and she smiled and said, Cedar waxwing. The often spend the summers in the thick forests, and nest in conifers like those that grow in the park near the river.

I drove back to work feeling full of hope.