Yellow Birds

We get to summer school early so he can play. We go around to the back and start shooting baskets. I'm his mom. In high heel sandals, I stink, but every now and then the ball goes in the hoop.

They bus the black kids ("African American" my son always corrects me) up from the hot city to our elite leafy suburb and they all arrive like a close-knit tribe, pouring out across the charcoal asphalt, pooling into quick groups of kickball, basketball, other games, some stand and watch.

"I killed a bird!" the shout goes up fast from a far corner of the school yard, a young African American kid I like a lot named James calls out.

A gorgeous goldfinch baby brighter than yellow sun is down, but not out, wiggling and flipping flapping a hurt leg, a wing. Another appears and they seem to be siblings, tossed from a nest but hard to see from where as they lie next to the school brick wall, only dull silver gutters on the flat roof above them. Did they live there? We can't put them back there, can we?

The kids are in a flap as well -- they want to poke at the birds with a stick -- but the birds know to struggle out of range. Some grownups come over -- men -- and me -- a mom. It's hard to know what to do.

I can be flighty, it's true, and but for the grace of God go I in such a feathery bright bird suit. But not today. I am most momish as I know how to keep my head and give a bird comfort. I take off my black baseball hat -- Target chic I bought for $5.00 to avoid a sunburned head -- and know it will be the perfect bird ambulance. I scoop one up and calm him -- not so easy actually as I get a burst of wingy resistance -- but then recall, from my mother's own skilled hands, how to quiet a wild animal.

Her touch visits me ... my mom long gone ... and gives me guidance. The bird shrinks to a streamlined yellow bullet. Stops moving. Decides to trust me. I turn my blonde feathery head slowly, searching for a spot, 180 degrees away from the crowd of kids and two grown men, then I smile, see the woods behind the school. I begin the first transport, wordless. I know the men will keep the kids from touching the other bird while I stride smoothly to the woods.

The first bird I release in tall grass, but after the quiet ride, she's ready to wing it and takes off into the trees. Good girl.

I go back to triage my other survivor. Though she's more hurt, she's with the program, and nearly hops into my hat, ready for the excursion, like I run a tour bus of leafy venues or something. We walk to the woods. I'm talking to her, my son is trailing me. He's listening. I'm cooing stuff to a small yellow bird, same stuff I've cooed to him when he was at risk. He knows a mom knows this stuff -- mysterious incantations. "Don't worry, it's all going to be all right."

I hide her away in a safe almost-nest of damp green grass, shaded from a warm summer sun. She settles nicely. I wish her well.

The kids are lined up and all ready going into school. My son and I walk back alone. "We did our good deed," he says, surprising me with his cub scout kindness. "Yes," I say.

When I leave him, he lets me hug and kiss him this time, something rare lately in public, with my big boy nine-year-old who often as not pushes my motherly affection away, in fear other big boys will see.

Back in the car, I drive away and listen to Bruce Springsteen on the radio singing, "My Hometown" about trying to keep his family together, raise his son. I'm crying I notice suddenly, nice splashy tears, wet thanks to my mom for showing me how to handle a broken bird, how to kiss my son, how to do the best we can. That's all we can do.