I took yesterday afternoon to go retrieve the Keelhauler from his latest two weeks at sea. My absence of three hours resulted in a slew of messages in my mailbox, the highlight of which was an explanation of a system glitch from our computer guy, wherein he inadvertently replaced the word "inconvenience" with the word "incontinence," as in, "I apologize for any incontinence this may have caused you."

The highlight of yesterday was the confirmation that my plan to become Crazy Bird Lady is taking shape! The Keelhauler and I stopped by the brewery on our way home--a short visit that lasted only five hours--and amused ourselves with beer and conversation. Anthony and Lara, who manage and market the place, were still working, so the Keelhauler climbed into the mash tank (I think it's called) and cleaned it out while Anthony drove the forklift around, moving kegs.

I was watching the Keelhauler scrub the inside of a copper tank when I heard the forklift engine stop, and saw Anthony come around the corner, motioning for me to follow him. "This may be a bit of an emotional rollercoaster," he said, as we walked into the alley behind the building. For a moment, I thought I had been chosen as the subject of a "This Is Your Life" segment, but no. Instead, he pointed to a tiny baby bird sitting on the concrete. Huddled. I'll say he was huddled, because it's more poignant.

Instantly, my Crazy Bird Lady instincts took over--I am almost superhuman when it comes to feats of birdwatching--and I approached the tiny bird. He was brown, maybe a sparrow. I looked around for his home, and saw a mud nest about twelve feet up, under the rafters of the next building. Do sparrows build mud nests? I thought, wondering where he'd come from.

Momentarily, a flurry of bird activity transpired on the roof as birds similar in appearance to the one on the ground fluttered and cheeped and menaced me with their avian kara-tay, signing the signals for "Hand over the shorty, yo!" with splayed feathers and high-pitched peeps. Oh, I knew what they were trying to tell me, but I couldn't figure out how to get the little guy back in his nest.

What are you going to do, carry him in your beak, G? I signed, hopping on one foot and cocking my head to the right.

They signaled back, circling like falcons, cheeping Haven't you seen Wild Kingdom? You're not supposed to interfere with the wildlife, beyotch!

They had a point. I circled backwards twice, nearly impaling myself on the forklift, artfully flailing my left arm, and then my right, to indicate that I planned to phrase my answer in the form of a question.

Just then, Anthony reappeared with a cardboard box, and the sparrows retreated. "How's it going?" he asked me, and winded from my bird-signalling, I nodded, finger to my throat, checking my pulse, which was elevated but not alarming.

I picked up the tiny bird in my palm, and lowered him into the box, which I'd set on its side. He didn't want to hop out of my palm, and I looked at him for a minute, at his perfect little wings, his tailfeathers that were still coming in. I pictured the fluttering spiral that must have preceded his arrival on the pavement, and looked up again at the nest, uncertain of my next move. (Possibility: the Electric Slide.)

"We have a tall ladder," offered Anthony, and so a plan was enacted. He set the ladder against the wall, and scaled it without any of the screaming or nervous laughter that invariably accompanies my attempts at ladder-climbing. At the top of the ladder, he retrieved the baby from the box, and held it in his palm. The baby hopped into the nest, clearly happy to be home. (I know, because he popped back out and gave the "high five" to Anthony.)

Satisfied with the bird rescue, Anthony and I went back inside, where the tips of the Keelhauler's spiky hair were still visible inside the tank. Seeing us, he hopped out, and we all headed to the tap for celebratory beer.

And so you see: All is right with the world. Amen, amen.

Star of the day. . .Wayne M Coyne