She was nose down in dense clover, tail feathers up and wings askew like an ill-fated paper airplane. No movement, and seemingly no way to right her injured self from the expanses of oxalis that had overtaken my late-summer garden. Whenever a bird strikes my front window, my eyes dart in that direction; if I don’t se…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Tricia Gates Brown to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.