a suspension
of borrowed time & life
recipe and method for feeding a baby starling
recipe:
one-half of a medium-boiled large egg, super finely diced
3-4 sardines canned in water, with all the bones and skin, gingerly rinsed under a thin stream of tap water, to remove excess salt, laid atop a paper towel
to passively drain the water,
then, finely chopped
mash sardines and egg together,
then slowly add up to 1 teaspoon of unsweetened organic apple sauce,
the mash should be integrated and mostly smooth
but not too wet or runny
store in sealed glass container refrigerated for no more than 2.5 days
(increase to whole boiled egg and full can of sardines and extra applesauce — and increase mash chunkiness as bird grows)
to feed:
fill a plastic drinking straw with the food,
by pumping the straw up and down into the mash with suction
warm the filled straw in hand while wearing a disposable glove to bring the mash close to room temperature
gently but quickly eject tubes/ribbons of mash into baby bird’s mouth as she gapes for food - like toothpaste on toothbrush almost; it’s daunting at first; she is so demanding! so loud! so urgent!
so hungry!
she will stop gaping when full
wash straw and reuse
(DQ & Five Guys straws are wide, flexible and work best)
repeat feeding every half hour, then eventually every hour or so, about 300 times over the course of next three weeks
to thrive:
during that time create and whistle to her a short, 3-4 note, unique song to recognize your voice
love her, talk to her,
encourage her, comfort her,
and hold her, carry her outside to see the world she will soon enter
also during that time: bring her small worms, slugs and insects to taste and/or eat / you will need to manually reduce them to be digestible for her, at first
then teach her to forage and hunt for them herself; she will use her beak as a shovel to unearth them and poke at and sever them with her beak;
watch her back while she’s busy doing this - be her wingman!
she will teach herself to bathe and sun, fluff, dry and preen
one day she will hop, sputter-fly into the grass, into the garden; into the bramble or tall grasses
then, she will fly and soar - high into the trees, beyond your reach, sight or protection
you will worry about predators and bird bullies, weather, machines, injury and hunger
you will listen for her voice
and whistle and call for her
sometimes you will hear her;
but she will always hear you; she knows your face, form, voice and song
she will still come home for supplemental feeding
she will still come home to sleep in her nest box inside the barn overnight because being a baby bird alone in the world - is exhausting
being a mother bird, even moreso
she will come back, again and again.
she is just pure joy.
she is pure trust.
you are so lucky to have experienced her first weeks of life
you rescued her; but she has restored you, in fact.
please know,
always remember, and never forget:
every bird you see, every wild mammal you see, they all initially survived because of a very devoted mother

it was my son’s, my golden boy’s 30th birthday
the person i intentionally conceived, birthed and raised
and whom i ask nothing of beyond:
be alive
be true, be kind, be generous,
be fucking bold and fierce when the time comes
so, when a starling nestling fell from a nest constructed in the clapboards of the barn —
was discovered as tossed onto and broken by the aged concrete apron in the full June Sun on that 90° day, on his birthday
i, in my superstition,
thought to myself:
my son’s life now depends upon my care of this bird
a wholly unreasonable quid pro quo
a wholly reasonable quid pro quo
my “thirty year-old son”
my mind, fucking blown away by that,
since it seems i was:
just nursing him,
just teaching him to swim
just making turkey and swiss subs and picking perfect pomegranates for his packed school lunches
just driving to or from the Montrose Blue Line
he missing his stop home: oh, O’Hare
just sending him to Alaska
just kissing him goodbye in Nebraska
my son, traveling 1,300 miles to camp and hike deep in grizzly country to celebrate his three decades
he is paddling strong rapids / he is hiking snow-filled canyons in crampons; and this mf’er: he already knows what i think about birthday adventures: don’t skydive, don’t scuba dive, don’t die on your birthday
i refrain, and don’t say: “you know how many people die on their birthdays from their bullshit decisions?”
he is so capable:
i think: with 94.616% certainty.
and so, my bargain became:
keep this nestling baby bird alive and safe
and your son will remain alive and safe
he was once this tender helpless bird; so too, was i
as if — i, as in me, could parlay his life — and mine.
but i can. and i do. and i will, always.
I Am
the Balance,
and i know the Earth and universe ultimately insist on reciprocity
i respect the Balance, the parlay.
i hear the baby bird in my sleep; this dear, nestling, now-fledgling, starling.
her cries for food, attention, warmth — and love?
echo in my ear, like my infant son’s once did
i know. i know. i know.
like a phantom limb/ i wake up to her voice in the middle of the night as if i birthed her
i half-expect my breasts to be engorged and leaking milk
my grandmother, a bilateral amputee,
i witnessed her —
over and over again reach for her legs
her missing calves to rub,
her absent, throbbing shins,
her feet and toes, memories only of pain — not memory of walking on soft grass, soaking in warm fragrant water, entangled in cool, smooth, cotton sheets
my son,
instead, my phantom organ
my heart, removed and transplanted into him
i will complete any saga, rite, vendetta, petition, sojourn, spell, ritual
to sustain and suspend him
in buoying him,
i buoy me /
what if i stop?
what if i stop balancing us in the universe?
we will never, ever know
because I will never stop:
i will grow the jimson weed
i will raise the injured baby bird
i will incant the words over and over again
so they live.
so they fly.
and, both, have.

i took no fotos during her first few days when she was struggling so intensely from shock and loss — and also pain from her permanently dislocated right hip and maimed foot



one fully functional leg and foot,
with her two beautiful, healthy wings
july 11, 2024

perched high in the mulberry