Since these moments seem to wait for me, holding fast until I'm around to witness them, I didn't panic. Unable to get a decent angle on the bird from the window, I stepped out onto the deck in bare feet and abruptly leapt back inside, feeling as though I'd just stepped on hot coals. Its head was all wrong, turned around at an unnatural angle, and its legs were buckled beneath its stout, rust-colored breast. These situations often end with a bloody face to the burning-cold ice, the rest of the body limp.
Every movement is slow and brief and seemingly involuntary.
This bird moved its neck in much the same way. But you pity the bird over the hockey player because of its lack of understanding. It never knew it was in danger. Its legs kicked, a wing flapped, but that was all. By the time I laid it down beneath a nearby tree, it had righted its head, although it showed few signs of being able to walk, let alone fly.