There was a bird on the sidewalk. Plump and glasseyed, like a stuffed thing. I thought it such, until I got close enough to see that it was breathing fast and faintly.

Its feathers were sand colored with a like texture. Not meant for the snow and the city.

It was a plover of some sorts. How I knew that escaped me.

(Later it would come to me—in my parents house above the toilet is a framed painting of various New England shore birds. Apparently I had, dick-in-hand, unconsciously digested that information, useless and unnoticed until then.)

I wondered at how it found itself there. Without thinking I reached out a hand to touch it.

The bird sprung to life but only shortly. Flew straight into a glass door no more than six feet in front of it, connecting with a sad thump.

It danced a fluttery, broken dance. There are no metaphors for a broken bird. A broken bird is a broken bird.

* * *

Later, I tried calling around to see if someone could help it. It had seemed so rare and special there on the sidewalk. I thought there would be someone to call for such a thing. I thought I would describe the bird and specialists knowing of its rarity would rush through the night to save it.

But apparently, for such things at such an hour, there is no one.