This wild Kingfisher’s grandparent, I found in the garden, nearly dead, some years ago.
Nursed him back to health and set him free.
The next morning, the family swooped down, past me, in gratitude.
A couple of years later, I awoke to find the next generation, a parent of this bird, waiting for me on the terrace.
His wing seemed broken.
I picked him up and examined him.
He never flinched and stared deeply into my eyes.
A thorn had locked his wing from operating.
I pulled it out and set him free.
Without fail, he passes my window every day at the same time, crying out to me.
This baby sat in the tree, eye to eye with me, then flew directly to my hand and sat there for several minutes before flying away.
Intuition, compassion, and good intent, those essences of love were all we had.
Pure, unspoken.
An energy that has no end and passes silently onward, much further than we can imagine
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