On Saturday afternoon, I was sitting in a lawn chair on the driveway, watching the children play. My precious 27-month-old walked over to me from across the yard, saying soothingly, "Nice little bird. Nice little bird." He had something in his hand, which I presumed was a rock or bit of broken branch.
As he got closer, I saw fuzz!
I ran over to him to free a wee nestling from his fingers and saw it was still breathing.
|Newborn baby bird|
We asked Joseph to show us where he found the bird and we searched the area high and low--all the trees, the 20-foot shrubs, any crevices or nooks in the brick wall of the neighbor's home. We couldn't find the nest anywhere.
Any time the baby bird heard us or felt us jiggle his bowl, he opened his mouth wide for food. So pathetic!
I searched online: our local raptor center receives only raptors, and neither the SPCA nor the County seem to take birds. The various online sources for wild birds all described creating a "false nest" for the bird and hoping the parents will find it.
|A false next, built according to instructions|
Unfortunately, as we had tried to prepare the kids, the bird was not found by his mommy and daddy, nor did he survive the night. In the morning, we buried him.
|A rock marks its gravestone|
Our six-year-old chose to skip French toast breakfast and sat outside in the rain by the bird's gravesite for nearly an hour.
Our four-year-old drew a picture of the baby bird falling out of its nest, with the caption, "I love the bird that fell from the tree."
"Are not two sparrows sold for a penny?
Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father's care." (Matthew 10:29)