Yesterday morning I was rewarded with the sight of a small flock of wild turkeys rambling across a suburban lawn. I shuttled most of the way home, though, to avoid breathing the smoke drifting up from a huge wildfire scorching canyons some 70 miles to the south.
This afternoon I returned from another building and was surprised to feel something tap my arm as it dropped from my hair. There on the floor was a yellow jacket—a wasp. Crushing it was an option. But it had chosen not to sting me, so I chose to scoop it up and release it. Missing most of its left wing, I set it on some flowering shrubs and wished it well.
Heat waves and bad air quality are partners. I stepped from the cool comfort of the shuttle into a veritable blast furnace: 97F. No need for exertion today; I prepared for a leisurely pedal home.
What's that in the middle of the lane, I wondered, as I signaled my turn from a busy road onto a side street.
Feathers ... did someone hit a duck here? There shouldn't be a duck here.
I stopped. It was a pheasant. [Yes, a pheasant.] A youngster, molting into his adult plumage. In the middle of the road. He was alive, but in distress. Miraculously, no one had run over him (yet).
What to do, what to do ... He was breathing hard. In this heat, collapsed on the hot roadway was not the place to be. I assumed he was injured and I would need to pick him up, but he rose and started walking.
No, no, not toward the busy road! I formed a moving fence, guiding him slowly to safety (and, shade) under a bush on the corner and wishing him well, regretting that I had no water to share.
That bit about being bored with my commute? Rubbish.
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