Sparrow

He threaded another red wiggler on his hook. He was almost out of bait, which meant he would soon be either walking back to the house or romping around the field in search of grasshoppers with which to tempt fish. Another cast followed by silence. Slowly the rest of the world came into focus. The heat oozed into him, making him drowsy. Birds and bugs called to each other around him, trying desperately to do whatever it is bugs and birds are supposed to do.

Bob shifted his footing a bit. The pond bank was steep and made his booted feet hurt. As he watched his line floating in a long corkscrew on the surface of the black water, a bird landed nearby on the bank. The sparrow hopped into the inch-deep water to bathe, and the boy turned his eyes but not his thoughts back to the water, which held his quarry – small bream that fought like hell when they had a hook in their throats.

So special, this young bird that had either not seen him or was still too inexperienced to fear him. Wallowing about in bird fashion, it was untroubled by the nine-year-old’s presence. As Bob watched, his new friend made one more hop in and found itself too deep.

It’s going to drown! Reach down and help it! It will be grateful to you and be your friend for the rest of its life.

Bob picked up his foot and put it right back down.

No. Wild animals are able to take care of themselves. If you try to help it, you’ll simply scare it and make things worse.

What is your line doing?

Bob looked up to see his line sitting just as it had been. He looked down at his little friend again to see that it had taken its last breath – a lung full of water.

It’s your fault. You could have helped and you didn’t. It doesn’t matter from here on out. No matter how much good you do, no matter how many people you help, no matter what you accomplish, that little bird died because you couldn’t act.

Oh bird! Please forgive me!

The bird’s silence was a most damning accusation.