A number of years ago, while vacationing in the Ozarks with my twin sister and her family, my daughter stumbled upon a wandering baby bird. A fierce storm had moved through the night before, and by all indications, the little bird had been blown from his nest, located in one of the tall trees surrounding our cottage.
Not sure what to do with a motherless baby bird, we gathered some grass and twigs and placed him atop one of the picnic tables on our high-rise deck. It was the best we could offer, but the little bird seemed quite perplexed on his bed of spiky twigs. He knew he didn't belong.
Dinner time came, and while my brother-in-law flipped burgers on the grill, my sister videotaped the little bird.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, large drops of rain began to fall. The sky darkened, and in the distance, the sound of thunder rumbled across the hills. Another storm was moving in.