Unbelievably, I've been pulled into a natural disaster waiting to happen. A quick Google search shows that 90 - 95% of wild birds that are hand fed don't survive. Yet here I am, using dull tweezers and a quarter-teaspoon measuring cup to feed Archie. That's what I've named him: Archibald. Archie for short.
What's wrong with me?
Why did I have to stumble upon his gaping wide open yellow mouth last night? What led me to be outside on a ridiculously humid evening, when thunder and lightning were barely a memory and more of their ilk threatened my lush neighborhood any minute? And why him? A sibling lay prostrate nearby, clearly killed by the fall. But this little guy...he thrived. He survived.
So a 12-pack diet Coke box is his home, and a brick keeps him safe from predators. I cannot believe he even survived the night. His feathers are growing, his legs are getting stronger. And like a newborn baby, his head is WAY too big for his body.
Grow strong, little guy! Spread your wings and fly...