Case # 426431
Photo by Paul Crook on Unsplash
I thought the bird was dead
Glossy black feathers sandwiching a ruffled brown neck
tucked in like a rotisserie chicken in the long grass.
Ryan didn't believe me
So we stopped at the pond to check
My tires smacking the sidewalk, groceries melting in the trunk
Still as a statue, on the concrete culvert, the anhinga was standing!
Breathing.. He snapped his pincer beak when we got close
I thought it a good sign-feisty means alive, right?
Still, I worried. Called wildlife rescue. Waited.
Checked on the anhinga again.
Now his long neck stretched backward, tucking into its wings,
like a cartoon chicken, just wings and webbed feet and no head.
I check once more, before dusk
The animal control guy is there with a long stick.
As if he's fighting lions, not rescuing an injured bird.
He climbs the hill to leave.
Excuse me! I say. What about the bird?
Aren’t you taking him?
He's clearly ill.
Nah, says the guy with a stick.
He has no broken wings or blood, I checked
His eyes dart to his truck
I get calls like this all the time for anhingas.
They’re just cold
They're just sleeping
He has been there all day I say.
I watch birds.
This isn't normal, I protest.
Animal control looks around, his uniform buttoned and tucked, tight.
If I take them to Sea World, and they don't see any blood, they'll just release him.
And it's traumatic for the bird.
I doubt myself.
Yeah, maybe he's just cold (but it's 70 degrees)
And he lets us get so close
Can I take it home? I ask
He tells me no. The bird will attack me.
Gives me a case number. Then leaves.
A neighbor sees us. Tells us how the bird had debris-lint and string, wrapped around its beak yesterday Came to her door, so she freed the beak from the trash
I ask if she has tuna fish to feed it
She has a piece of fresh salmon in her trunk. Her dinner.
But she grabs it and we throw a few chunks next to the sleeping bird.
It doesn't flinch
I know it's dying
Despite animal control
Or the neighbor saying he's probably just exhausted
This glossy feathered anhinga is dying
And I can't do anything more to help it
And here I am again, 9 years old
Saying, look! Something is wrong here
And no one is listening
I head home, worry choking my throat
I offer half-hearts prayers at night
At dawn, I head towards the pond,
hope and dread swirling in my chest
The culvert is empty!
He ate the salmon and flew away!
I take a closer look, desire for truth always winning out over the happy ending
There, in the debris-muddied water, I see a graceful, feathered curve of neck
Beak parted, framing the dirty water
No no no no!
I sob like I'm choking
Say a hasty blessing and move on
Brutal truth this world
Breaks my heart over and over
What is the point of seeing something if you can't fix it?
But later I wonder, maybe it was preparing to die.
Maybe there was nothing I could do
Except witness and share with you
Tierra 11/15/21