The Starling

I’ve been relatively spare with my entries, lately. It’s not for lack of thoughts, words, musings, dreams or ponderings. It’s not that at all. In fact, I’ve been overwhelmed with such. Clarity of thought is hard to come by at times like these.

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Just a few hours ago, I was sitting quietly at my computer trying
(less than successfully) to keep up with my correspondence. I heard an unfamiliar scratching. One learns to identify the scratching sounds made by cats…particularly if their litter boxes are within earshot. Animals have soundtracks uniquely their own. I hear, and am ever aware of, their music…in my subconscious.

These scratchings felt unfamiliar. I saw a shadow flicker across an open doorway…accompanied by a flutter. Was I imagining things (just a normal state of affairs)? I paused to listen. Another flutter. More scratching. A rustle.

I walked into the laundry room. I saw her immediately. She was an iridescent starling, crouching there on a windowsill. (Note: I have no way of knowing if “it” were a “he” or a “she.” I came to think of her as a female gone astray...but that's just me). How ever did she find her way here?

Just another one of life’s mysteries, I guess.

I approached slowly. I cooed to her that I meant no harm. She crouched a little lower. I extended my hand. Why? What did I hope she would do? I can’t say, really. I simply wanted to extend my hand to her. She panicked…and nearly flew directly into my face before veering sharply, inches from my nose, and frantically winging her way to the window on the adjacent wall. I approached again. Cooing once more my good intentions. I suspect she found me most bewildering…speaking an incomprehensible language…with intentions most mysterious. I approached closer. One can’t help but admire the coloration of a starling’s plumage when the crystalline winter sun slants in through a small window to illuminate this winged soul. The neck and back of a starling shimmer and spark with colors we can’t even name. She was dazzling…albeit a bit confused.

Digression/Observation: I doubt it was simple coincidence that this dear, trembling heart always flew from window to window…and nowhere else…although the basement is replete with safer, far more sheltered perches. She flew from window to window. Windowpane to windowpane. A sheet of glass was all that stood between her and the sun and the cold winter air whispering in snow-encrusted branches. She flew from window to window…desperate for freedom...far more than for her safety

I approached, she fled…oh, about a dozen times, or so. For about two hours, or so. Yet, with each approach, she allowed me to come closer. Fingertips just inches from her wings, then fractions of inches, then momentarily touching, and then…finally…a caress.

She momentarily squawked in shock as I wrapped my fingers around her. Her beak was agape. She was frozen with fear, but my fingers felt her warmth immediately. I caressed her head and cooed to her that she was safe.

She won’t be trapped, held, possessed much longer.

I tiptoed up the stairs to the doorway. I was relieved to see both cats sleeping. I opened the door to the outside world, and opened my hand. She spun, twirled and exploded from my fingers…sailing away to the east. Never looking back.

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Was she a sign, an omen, an augury? Was she a lesson?

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