The Flog – The Fabry Log

I walked into the garage after taking Tebow on his morning excursion and heard the sound. The garage door had been left open, something I don't recommend in the desert. You never know what will crawl in there and make itself at home.

I headed for the laundry door and saw it by the refrigerator. The still, lifeless body of a bird. Tebow wanted to attack. I guided him into the house and took a closer look.

I'm not a bird enthusiast—I can't tell you what species it was, but I can tell you to my untrained eye it was stone cold dead. Expired. This was a late bird.

Not a sparrow falls and all that stuff. God cares for you more than birds. All that went through my head and out again. It takes faith to believe that and I had work to do, I didn't have time for faith.

I've heard you shouldn't touch dead animals, so I went inside to get a plastic bag to move its form from the concrete.

When I returned something had changed. Legs twitched, eyes fluttered. The head moved back and forth. But the poor thing was on its back and a wing dangled. There was really no hope.

I picked it up with the bag, as gently but firmly as I could, and passed by the trash cans and other garage accoutrement. Outside I put it on the ground in the yard which is nothing but gravel. The poor thing at least deserved some grass, but grass have I none.

I left him there, on his back, his legs wiggling, eyes darting, head moving. He was easy prey. But there was no hope. He was flat on his back and couldn't get up on his feet. And if he did get on his feet, that damaged wing would keep him from flight.

Behind me, on the garage roof, the same type of bird chirped and called. Maybe it was a Zig Ziglar type, calling encouragement and positive statements. Perhaps it was one of Job's friends. Or maybe the bird was chirping, "Curse God and die! More worms for me!"

The bird flew away and I moved into the open door to watch. It was almost as if I were looking at my own life, my own journey. Somehow the bird had gotten into the garage and had smacked the wall or a car and was now on its back, ready for the plastic bag. No hope. Just waiting for the predator to carry it away.

Then something happened. Not with the twitching bird, it was still on its back, still helpless and flailing. No, something wonderful. It was another bird—the same type, perhaps the one from the garage, perhaps another, and it flew near the injured bird. I wanted my camera. But I was frozen. You'll have to trust me on this.

This second bird came near the injured one, but not too close. And then it turned and walked away, toward the road. Almost as if it were ignoring the injured bird. Almost as if it were saying, "If you're going to stay there, I'm out of here." How cruel. Insensitive.

And then it turned. I swear to you, it turned. Or maybe this is a fiction writer's view of the story. Maybe I'm making this up to fit the template of what I wanted to happen. But all I can do is describe it.

The injured bird tried to get up. It skittered and flailed with its legs and attempted to right itself, but it couldn't. I thought about helping it, putting it on its belly instead of its back, then I thought better of it. Perhaps this is the mother bird in me. My inner sparrow.

The bird on the road was further away now. The bird on the ground flailed, jostled, and with a wing movement flapped itself onto its belly. Then the legs moved and it stood and walked across the rocks, the damaged wing dangling. And it caught up with the bigger bird on the other side of the road, and then the form changed—the wing was brought back to the body so that the two, other than the size of them, looked the same.

The two birds moved into the cactus and mesquite and scrub, up a little hill, around a cholla, and disappeared.

I didn't witness the flyover. I don't have independent knowledge of the bird's return to the air.

Somehow, I don't need it.