Written by Jean Snow of California
Mothering a baby blue jay was not my idea when I drove out on errands that morning. I’d never really liked those pesky Eastern Blue Jays who sat at my feeder stuffing themselves, keeping away the more timid birds.
“Mommy, stop!” cried my daughter. “There’s a baby blue jay!”
I braked and pulled over to leap out and scoop up a scrawny bird just as he was about to walk into the highway traffic. Turning to put him in the bushes, I saw the body of a full-grown blue jay. His mother? How could this fledgling survive? His legs were dry twigs and his cold claws tightened about my finger. Eyes closed, his head sagged. Poor mite!
I cupped my other hand over him. He settled into the warmth, then opened a jet bead eye and looked at me.
“I’ll try,” I sighed.