I saw a tiny bird sitting in the middle of the street.

At first, I thought I must be mistaken; surely it was a leaf, or a bird-shaped rock. But then its head moved, a little, and I felt compelled to pull over and help it.

I assumed it couldn’t fly. After all, otherwise, why would it be sitting in the middle of the street for at least the one minute I’d been watching it?

I felt that attempting to pick up wildlife with my bare hands might be unsafe for me or the bird, so I looked in my car to see what I had — the roll of paper towels seemed the most promising. So I gathered a bunch of paper towels between my two hands and attempted to pick up the bird.

I got it about an inch off the ground before it awkwardly fluttered away, hitting the ground at a strange angle and landing a couple feet away — still in the street, but somewhat closer to the side.

So it could fly, at least a bit. That was good.

At this point, I stopped to wonder what my end game was here. Was I going to take the bird into my home? My three cats surely would enjoy his presence, but that certainly wasn’t in the best interests of the bird. Should I call animal control? Wouldn’t a small bird with suicidal tendencies be beneath their notice?

The least I could do was get it out of the street, I reasoned. I approached again and took a little more time with it. I was approaching from behind and it clearly knew I was there but didn’t seem too concerned that I was close. I got a good look at it. It was mostly charcoal gray…