“Ruth!” I said on the phone to my friend, the former rock star. “Remember that robin you brought me? He’s all better. I’m going to release him.”
“Ah, that’s terrific!” she said. “Where? You’re not taking him back to that same field, are you? He’ll just get his butt kicked all over again and then I’ll find him and have to bring him back to you.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Maybe he’s had time to rethink his strategy. But I’ll let him go here. If he really wants to go back for another round it’s only a mile or so away. He has a little entourage of young robins, so if I release them all together maybe he’ll decide to stick around.”
“That’s cool,” said Ruth. “Go get him and put him on the phone and I’ll sing ‘Free Bird.’ You know, for inspiration.”
The kitchen’s bay window looks out over a small strip of “lawn”—our generous term for a motley collection of weeds, moss, and the occasional struggling patch of actual grass—and on to a wide slope that rises into the woods. Dotted with huge, immovable rocks and planted with berry bushes and bird-friendly groundcover, the slope sports two bird feeders and a suet holder and is a busy place. From the kitchen table we can watch the interactions of black-capped chickadees and tufted titmice; downy and red-bellied woodpeckers; white-throated, song, and fox sparrows; white- and red-breasted nuthatches; mourning doves; Carolina and house wrens; and brown creepers. One day a Cooper’s hawk will storm into the yard, sending the songbirds diving for cover; a few days later we’ll see the hawk race away into the woods, furiously pursued by a pack of crows.
The eastern phoebes return from their winter vacation on April 1, announcing their arrival from the shadbush just beginning to bud. By the end of April we’re waiting for the rose-breasted grosbeaks, who arrive two days before the ruby-throated hummingbirds and are occasionally trailed by an indigo bunting or two. By May we struggle to keep the feeders filled for the various migrants who stop, fuel up for a few days, and continue on their way north. By the time the mountain laurel bursts into bloom the slate-colored juncos have long since headed north, only to return after most of the summer birds have followed the warm weather south. But the grand spectacle comes at the end of October, when one of us will hear a rattling, grating waterfall of sound that seems to descend and envelop the house; we all rush out to the deck to find the woods black with common grackles—hundreds and hundreds of them, their iridescent feathers shimmering in the light, their harsh voices filling the autumn air. When they see us they startle and lift off as one, the sound of their wings like a spinnaker filled with a sudden gust of wind.
Into this avian merry-go-round I wanted to introduce rehabilitated songbirds. My yard was a good place for soft releases: filled with other songbirds, access to food and cover, surrounded by woodland but with a sunny field a few hundred yards away. The kids and I built another bug pit near one of the feeders, and we were ready to go.
We released the robins early one sunny afternoon, filling the bug pit with earthworms and mealworms and then setting the crates nearby. “This is it!” I said to the kids.
“You’re not going to cry, are you?” said Mac.
“Why would she cry?” asked Skye.
“Remember all those hawk releases we used to go to? All the grown-ups were crying.”
“Sometimes they’re happy tears,” I said. “People who take care of birds work so hard, and when everything turns out right they get all emotional. But even the people who haven’t taken care of the birds sometimes get weepy because letting a bird go is symbolic, and people see themselves in the bird. Maybe something hurt you and knocked you down, and in spite of the odds you’ve gotten back up and are trying again. Maybe you’re letting go of one part of your life and starting another. Maybe you’re trying to let your hopes and dreams take flight.”
The kids stared at me. I wanted them to see how much more there was to bird rehabilitation than the day-to-day care, to appreciate why people put themselves through so much just so they could watch a healed bird fly away. I wanted them to know that when I walked into the flight cage I felt as if I were entering Skye’s world, as if her kelpie had transformed my man-made building into a land filled with fairies and surrounded by magic, a lush green habitat home to the breathtaking beauty of a robin and the ephemeral trill of a waxwing. And I wanted them to know that my granted wish, like that of a fairy princess, was only temporary; before long, all those I had wished for would take to the sky and disappear.
Mac stared off into the distance; Skye gave me a searching look and took a deep breath.
“Can I have macaroni and cheese for dinner?” she asked.
When we opened the doors the adult robin rocketed up into a nearby hemlock; two of the fledglings followed him, another took cover under a juniper bush, and the last one surveyed the scene from a mountain laurel. I wondered if the young ones remembered freedom, having come into captivity as fledglings only several weeks earlier. I crouched by the bug pit, sifting worms through my fingers and demonstrating where the fast food was located, feeling as if I should mark the occasion by singing “Free Bird”—as Ruth had said, for inspiration.
“What are you singing?” asked Skye. “And why are you singing with that accent?”
“It’s a Lynyrd Skynyrd song,” I said. “It’s called…”
“Lynyrd Skynyrd!” said Mac. “Is this another one of those old guys from back when you were born?”
“Oh, never mind,” I said.
Later we released the song sparrow, who had been left in a box on the doorstep of a local animal hospital and eventually found her way to Joanne, and finally to me. My yard was a good release area for her, as it was frequented by other song sparrows, and I hoped she would find a new group.
I had taken the house finch back to Alan two days before, as the finch wasn’t flying well and I was worried that the eye injury might have affected his vision.
“There’s no conjunctivitis,” Alan had said. “He can see out of that eye, although I can’t guarantee how well. His wing is locked up again, though.”
“All right.” I sighed. “I stopped doing the physical therapy because he was getting too stressed out. I can just catch and release him in the flight—he doesn’t mind that as much.”
To anyone who didn’t know him, Alan’s face was pleasantly expressionless. But I could see the infinitesimal lift of the eyebrow, the almost imperceptible tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Quit it!” I said. “He’s my first songbird and he’s eating well and I don’t think he’s in any pain, so I’m not going to give up on him.”
“Good for you!” he said emphatically, then, conceding the battle, grinned and shook his head.
The day we released the robins was the day the flight-cage-go-round began. One might assume that unlike raptors, who tend to eat their flightmates if not paired correctly, songbirds belong to one big peaceable kingdom and can happily share a large space. Naturally, this is not the case; that would make the rehabber’s life too easy.
Robins, who can be quite aggressive with each other—as ours had learned—are not aggressive with other species, which was why they could live in the same enclosure with the finch, the sparrow, the catbird, and the waxwing. But coming up and needing flight cage space were the six blue jays, two Carolina wrens, and three purple finches (all currently residing in the extra bathroom), and a wood thrush and a downy woodpecker (coming from other rehabbers). Not to forget the grackles, who were behind flight door number one.
The wrens, finches, thrush, and woodpecker could all go in with the house finch, catbird, and waxwing, since all are gentle songbird species. But blue jays, who are in the crow family, are aggressive and can’t be housed with songbirds; and neither can grackles, which are actually Icterids. Fox and field sparrows are gentle, but not house sparrows! Hairy and red-bellied woodpeckers are easygoing, but yellow-shafted flickers are killers! Catbirds are kind little birds but are in the same family as mockingbirds, who will beat up anything in sight! The wood thrush is related to the robin, but the robins just left!
“I have an idea,” said John. “Put the herring gull out there, and that’ll take care of all of them.”
Had the jays and grackles been adults, I might have worried about putting them together. But they were all juveniles, they had no experience with other birds, and any territorial feelings the grackles might have about their adopted habitat would be offset by the fact that they were outnumbered by the jays.
The following morning we carried the jays, who were finally eating on their own, out to the flight cage and unzipped their reptarium. When they flew up to various perches the grackles froze, their eyes glued to the intruders, looking like two members of an undiscovered jungle tribe who had somehow stumbled on the cast of Blue Man Group. Although the jays were probably just as taken aback by the sight of the dark, yellow-eyed birds, they had no time for reflection; faced with over two hundred square feet of space they paused for a moment, then turned into kids on the last day of school. They flew sideways, ricocheted off of the sides of the flight, and played chicken with my head. They’d land near one of the grackles, then immediately spring off the perch and giddily flap away, as if they had taunted Death itself and lived to tell about it.
During the day I spotted several song sparrows weaving their way between the bushes on the slope, searching for insects and picking up the occasional seed; and I wished that I were capable of identifying the one I had just released among a crowd of—to my undiscerning human eye—exact duplicates. I had seen all five robins just before dusk the previous evening, perching on various tree limbs, pulling bugs from the lawn and snatching mealworms from the bug pit. Today I had seen all four juveniles but not the adult. John and I sat on the deck at the end of the day holding glasses of wine, watching as the sun descended and the four young robins traversed the slope.
“I think the adult has gone home,” I said. “I hope he’ll be all right.”
“Don’t worry,” said John. “He’ll be fine. He’s a wild bird.”
I had released many birds during my years as a wildlife volunteer, but I had been part of a group effort; I had not been solely responsible for any of them. I had been positive and matter-of-fact about releasing the songbirds in front of the kids, but now, alone with John, my bravado began to splinter.
“But what about the fledglings?” I said. “Now they don’t have anyone to show them the ropes. They’re out there all alone. It’s dangerous.”
“They have each other,” John insisted. “They’re strong and healthy, and they know how to get food. They’ll figure out the rest.”
“But what about the song sparrow? It’s not her territory. She’s in a brand-new place. What happens if….”
“You can’t do this,” said John. “Once you release them, your job is done.”
I watched the birds, feeling my neck knotting in silent protest. I had given both the adult robin and the sparrow a second chance, but I would never know what they did with it. Would they live long and healthy lives? And what about the fledglings? Would they all reach adulthood? I had done with each of them what a rehabber is supposed to do: I brought them back, then I let them go. But how could I let them go after I’d let them go?
John held up his glass. “Congratulations on your songbird release.”
I tapped my glass against his. “Thanks,” I said, and hoped for the best.