bird story

Last night I was sitting by the window in the bedroom, emailing at the  desk my mother bought me forty years ago to do my homework on. Home by myself with the sound of the sea, feeling lonely. 

My eye was caught by a faint movement in the darkness behind the slatted blinds. A furry, feathery rustling. Black shiny eyes, alert. A mouse? No, it is a tiny bird, perched on the ridge where the window slides open. A honey eater with needle-sharp beak, grasping with claws as fine as black thread. It is nestled in the cosy space between window and blind. Roosting for the night, I guess. Do I need to do anything about this situation? The bird looks so settled in. My little companion. I decide to leave him or her there until the morning.

I keep on with my computer. The phone rings, it's my friend S, with a whole heap of stuff to report. I mention the bird to her - it's been sitting quietly all this time. She says better to release it now, or put it in a box and release it in the morning. I'm anticipating a distressing struggle, wild flapping of delicate wings, anxious beating of hearts. 

When I get off the phone I gather a box, lined with newspaper, and a towel. The bird seems slightly more active now. I open the window, lean in under the blind and enclose the feather-light body easily in my hand, with the towel.  I will give it the option of flying away: I hold it gently outside the window and  open the towel. The bird flutters lightly off to freedom, and I hope to  shelter for the night.