Another train whistle. That's two in the last five minutes. Construction season is definitely upon us. The pounding on the pylons began at 08:13. Actually an hour later than most mornings last summer. Noticed this morning that they're working on pylon #11, out of 24. They're making good time. May not have to listen to that quite so long this summer.

Orphan season is also here. Got my first baby animal call of the year this am. A baby bird was found on the sidewalk outside a gas station in town. Ninety-nine percent probability it's gonna be a house sparrow. Or, according to the North American guidebooks, an English sparrow.

The next to the last thing North America needs is another English sparrow. (The last thing we need would be another exotic starling.) No offense, Europe, but your cute little brown birds are just highly adaptive exotic pests here.

So the heeler sisters and I head into town with a small box, just in case.

The little bird is in a white towel by the cash register, peeping away. There are light brown stains on the towels. They knew it needed to be hydrated, so they tried to give it some cappuccino. Sounds strange, but since the stuff from their convenience store machines is primarily water, sugar and fats, that may not have been such a bad idea.

It's a house sparrow.

Now if I was a true professional, I would thank the folks for the call and leave with the nestling. And then promptly find a private place to terminate the poor thing. Even the wildlife rescue folks here don't rehab sparrows and starlings, since they do so much damage to native bird populations. They feed them to their hawks and owls.

But unfortunately, a few summers back I made the mistake of allowing the family to "rescue" an orphaned house sparrow. And he made it.

When he was large enough, I would take Chirp outside to hunt. Yes, I know, you shouldn't name these things because you get too attached... but I couldn't resist. He needed a name. Just like the robin the year before. One Sunday, only seconds before the wife and sons got home, Chirp took off. Still don't think she has forgiven me. But he had one white feather that was unusual, and we saw him regularly in with the rest of the sparrows at the feeder. Except now, I no longer called them house sparrows or English sparrows, the labels of vermin. I began calling them by their European name, weaver-finches.

We "rehab'ed" two more weaver-finches the next summer. (Do not tell anyone!)

So I've got a little weaver-finch in my hands.

It is extremely remote, but it is possible that this is a descendant of one of "our" weaver-finches.

I borrow a ladder and begin scouring the awnings and light fixtures. A hand-sawn access hole to the electrical conduit. Can't see into the overhang, and no mirrors handy (why didn't I throw one in the truck?). So I reach in and feel, all the time thinking about the special on black widow spiders I watched this weekend. I feel sticks. In a little pile, with something bald and warm in the middle. Papa weaver-finch is having a fit on the edge of the parking lot. This must be the place. In goes junior.

Here's your kid back. Happy Mother's Day (late). Sorry he's a little caffeinated.

******

They have a cool Cadillac at that gas station. Early 1950s vintage, but it is the front halves of two Caddys welded together. Only one engine, but it can be driven either direction. Needs two drivers, one for each steering wheel. It's a standard in all our parades, has been since before I got here. Does every community have its two-hooded car?

On the way home I spied a man in black in the canyon between the Interstate and railroad. I'm talking black pants, black shirt, and black western hat. He's target practicing with a handgun. Talk about a vision from the past.

Technically he's in the city limits, and should not be discharging a firearm. But he cannot hurt anyone there, firing against that stone wall. I leave the Man in Black alone and mind my own business.