Chaveleh
...
Gentle and kind and affectionate,
What a sweet little bird you were
Chaveleh, Chaveleh."
As a girl growing up in the country, my family and I had a number of animal adventures, including rescuing several in need of help. One which always stood out to me was Chaveleh, a Cedar Waxwing with an injured wing. Gently we placed her in a large cage my Dad had built to hold, at one time, an iguana. We named her Chaveleh* after the youngest daughter in "Fiddler On The Roof", because of the song which sweetly and sadly goes, "Little bird, little Chaveleh".
For weeks we fed her berries from a Yaupon Holly tree. The berries are red and waxy, and Cedar Waxwings eat them like candy. Chaveleh would hop around her cage and the sturdy branch we'd given her. She was a beautiful creature, and I felt both protective of her and awed by her wildness. We gave her time to recuperate, hoping the wing would mend on it's own while she was in a safe space, yet not knowing for sure. We simply watched that she was eating and drinking, hopping and pooping and chirping, as all birds do.
Then one day when we checked on her she was flying all around her cage. Just like that, she was flapping both wings with vigor as we'd never seen her do before yet had hoped she would.
"It's time," my Mom said. I felt both excited that Chaveleh was well, and sad to let her go. She had been a sweet and exotic companion. It had been fascinating to observe her up close and admire her yellow belly and dark eyes. Was she even a she? I believe that was our best educated guess, if we didn't identify her fully by certain features.
We moved the cage to the edge of the porch and opened the door. Out she flew, up into the trees, where she began to sing. Her wing was mended and she was free. Plus, she'd had the berries she could eat, too, just handed right over as she recovered, until it was time to be released. What more could a bird ask for?
I wonder how she came to have a hurt wing in the first place. Of all the spots she could have ended up, there she had been in the grass right in front of our house, my eyes landing on her as I'd run past. I had waited for her to fly away, and when she hadn't, we sheltered her. We named her and cared for her, and her gift back to us, besides the time spent admiring her, had been to heal and fly away. That was always the hope with any animals we rescued. Some didn't make it; little piercings of sadness for the baby bunnies and others which didn't thrive for long at all. We knew the risk, and knew it was worth taking, anyway. Little Chaveleh could have been traumatized and decide not to eat, or too hurt to survive, but she lived. To see her fly away was the most beautiful gift. Up into the treetops, up into the sky, singing and soaring and free.
*pronounced Ha-veh-lah, which is how I began spelling it until I looked it up.
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