Pentecost's Wings

We were just about ready to leave home for our church’s Pentecost service—wearing a bit of red so we’d fit in and stand out—when I heard that awful thud against our patio door’s glass that told me a bird had smashed into it. A soft feather was stuck to the glass, and below it, a few feet from the door and on the concrete, lay the victim. Its back was toward us. I am guessing it was a young robin.

It made a couple of pathetic moves, then lay still. I was quite certain it was dead. But it was time for us to leave home. I figured I’d have to do something with the corpse when we came back.

When we returned, the bird was gone. No sign of it. As if nothing had happened.

Had the body been carried off by another animal, a scavenger? Crows and hawks nest in the trees behind our house. Or perhaps a turkey vulture had swooped down from soaring high above to claim its meal.

Or what if, after a few still moments of repose, the robin had caught its breath again? What if it was as good as dead for a time until it was able to right itself and spread its wings and fly away on its own power?

I will never know who took wing from our patio while I was reciting a Pentecost liturgy in a church somewhere.