Last summer, outside the office building where I was working, a co-worker came across a baby sparrow laying on the concrete, right in front of the steps to the main entrance. Because I worked the front desk at the time and my job fell under “general office administration”, I was the first one she asked to come help her figure out what to do. We headed downstairs and outside, quickly finding the wounded bird. He had a bloody wound on his tiny head, was making the tiniest of chirps and moving very slowly towards one corner of the steps, presumably to die. We crouched around him as he struggled, making sure no one stepped on him as they entered and exited the building. It was clear he had fallen from a nest and we looked up and spotted the nest in the giant number zero that was high on the front facade which marked the building’s address.
We didn’t really know what to do next and were just starting to wonder if animal services would even make the trip for a tiny bird when we saw an adult sparrow enter the nest, likely the mother. She was chirping up a storm and hopped around the nest several times. She then flew down onto the concrete, near where we were still huddled around the baby who was now in the corner, eyes closed and not making a sound. She flitted around, chirping incessantly and we got out of the way in the hopes that she would see the baby but he was too far away. She just kept flying from the nest to the ground, nest to the ground, in what appeared to us to be a frenzied search (sparrows, like squirrels, seem skittish to me already and I know little about their behaviours but you didn’t have to be Holmes and Watson to see what had happened here). Continue reading