#1
The baby bird has fallen from a tree on Hilltop Lane. A wren. Its legs fold under its tiny body, attached but useless. We can save it, you say, and your husband ushers both of you back to the car, driving slowly to the vet, who takes one look at the bird and sadly shakes his head.
#2
The baby bird has fallen from a tree. It’s cheeping as though nothing’s wrong, but the tree is an oak and the nest is far. You scoop the bird up, its heartbeat thrumming rapidly. You bring it home, feed it milk from an eyedropper, splint its legs with Band-Aids, cheer each small step. We did it, your husband tells you, high-fiving.
#3
The baby bird has fallen from a tree. You say, why did God pick this bird to die? It was in the nest with its siblings, minding its own business, waiting for its mother to bring back a worm or whatever wrens eat and decided to stretch its wings. Did it get too close to the edge? Try to fly too soon? Your husband says, nothing will bring Ella back.
#4
The baby bird has fallen from a tree. You don’t notice, at first. You think leaf or discarded wrapper, something small and forgettable. Its legs broken. Its black eyes barely grazing the asphalt. Alive, but seriously injured. Look, you say to your husband, and he does, before you both keep walking.