The small, falling bird brushed me with flailing wings, then slapped the concrete balcony floor behind me. It was dead on impact, but looked like it was waiting to revive itself and fly home.
I had watched the bird’s mother from my bedroom window as she built a nest on the balcony above mine, warmed her eggs, fed her hatchlings. On warm nights when I sat outside, I had heard chirping after they were born.
I did not know where the mother was that night, nor if she ever learned how her little one disappeared.