I have been connected to birds for as long as I can remember, starting from the day I rescued a baby sparrow when I was just five years old.

It was a hot morning in mid-May, just after my fifth birthday. As I dashed barefoot through the grass, I noticed some movement ahead and instinctively leaped into the air.

I quickly turned around, checking for snakes, and knelt down. Parting the tall blades of grass, I found a struggling baby sparrow.

With its eyes wide open but barely any feathers covering its small body, it looked up at me and chirped. My heart broke for it. "Oh, you poor little bird! Where’s your mother and nest?"

I scanned the branches above but saw no sign of its mother or siblings. I gently placed my hand beside the sparrow, coaxing it with my finger to come closer.

Once it settled in the warmth of my palm, I carefully walked inside to show my mother, the ultimate authority. She looked skeptical.

"That's a young nestling. She might not make it, and it will require a lot of effort to feed her until she can fly. Can you handle that?" she asked.

"I promise, she won't die! I love her and will do anything to help her! I'll feed her and sleep beside her!" I insisted, filled with determination.

Mom explained the responsibilities: feeding her every hour or two, how to check if she would open her mouth when I tapped her beak, and much more.

I listened intently, then hurried to find a shoebox for the sparrow's new home, lining it with my softest flannel pajama top. We placed it in a sunlit spot near a window.

I attended to her diligently, watching her eagerly swallow food and quickly ask for more.

The sparrow imprinted on me, and I became her surrogate mother. Within a week, she transitioned from a nestling to a fledgling. I stroked her new feathers and encouraged her tiny stretches to strengthen her legs.

She grew stronger each day. One day, she hopped out of the shoebox and wobbled at the edge, a confused fledgling navigating a new world.

I was overjoyed when she took her first flight, tears of happiness streaming down my face for this little survivor.

The summer flew by as she ventured inside and outside, learning to navigate the outdoors. When she migrated in the fall, I missed her lively presence dearly, but felt fulfilled knowing my care had helped her thrive.

For the next three springs, she returned, tapping on our kitchen window to be let in. The first time I saw her, I shouted, "Sparrow is back!" loud enough for everyone to come running.

This was the beginning of my enduring love for birds.

Throughout my travels, I encountered many birds in the wild. I like to believe they sensed my appreciation for them, and some even taught me valuable lessons.

While living in a city, I met a feisty crow. Though I have a special fondness for raptors, this crow was a challenge, appearing determined to annoy me.

As a morning runner, she would cleverly hide among the tall fir trees near my home. Once I started my run, the dive-bombing began.

She would dip her wings and swoop close, narrowly missing my head, then perch on a wire ahead. This repeated until I finally escaped her territory.

She then moved to the garden, dropping fir cones onto my head. One afternoon, at my wit's end, I stood up, waving my trowel indignantly, demanding to know what she wanted.

She squawked, gazing sadly at a large birdbath I often neglected amidst my busy schedule. Of course! This was her domain, and she needed a bath.

I scrubbed the stone bowl, rinsed it thoroughly, and filled it with fresh cold water. As I stepped back, she flew down to the bath without hesitation, splashing joyfully while I stood there, grinning like a fool.

We were in the midst of a drought, and she needed relief. From that moment on, we became the best of friends. No more fir cones or harassment during my runs—this clueless human finally got the hint.

Wherever I travel, I forge bonds with feathered companions. They lift the barriers around my heart, filling it with joy and wonder.

Birds are trustworthy; they adhere to nature's laws, unlike humans, who often do not.

During a two-month stay in the equatorial bush of Kenya, swarms of thirsty bees would arrive at our campsite at dawn and dusk, staying for precisely half an hour before buzzing off.

Forewarned, I was unsure I could remain still while they crawled over my skin in search of water. The first arrivals tickled me, provoking laughter.

As they began sipping from my eyes and walking on my lips, small mercies appeared in the form of carmine bee-eaters, which provided the perfect distraction.

Their graceful aerial dances and acrobatics would make any human aerialist envious. Their colorful feathers flashed like rainbows as they darted around, effortlessly avoiding stingers while snatching bees mid-flight.

I surrendered to the bees, focusing on the bee-eaters' exquisite grace instead. I grew grateful for these daily encounters; it was the best therapy I could ask for.

Another adjustment was needed during my visit to northern Germany. My B&B was next to a nature reserve, and I eagerly set out to explore the trails on my morning run.

With my long hair tied in a high ponytail to keep cool, I noticed warning signs at the entrance about aggressive and territorial goshawks residing in the area.

As I ran along the well-planned trails, I heard the ominous whoosh of large wings approaching rapidly from behind. Turning around, I was met with the fierce gaze of the largest goshawk I had ever seen, diving directly toward me at alarming speed with its talons extended.

It flew low and brushed the top of my head with its talons, pulling a portion of my ponytail free.

I sprinted into the woods, releasing my hair as the goshawk made a sharp turn and came after me again. And again.

Having spent time in the wild, I understood that this powerful raptor viewed my speed and bobbing hair as a threat, likely due to a nearby nest.

I dashed among the trees and through the underbrush until I reached the edge of the reserve and open sky, with the goshawk tracking me the entire way.

This exhilarating experience filled me with awe for the fierce goshawk's ability to drive off a two-legged intruder. I also adjusted my running route.

Now, I fittingly reside on Raven Hill Road. My land partners and I had the privilege of naming our own road, and it was a unanimous decision.

We are fortunate to host a pair of ravens that built a high nest in a fir tree close to our living room deck, providing a constant source of nature's drama.

Our island is home to a healthy population of bald eagles. These majestic birds boast a wingspan of seven feet and can lift large fish from the water. In spring, they particularly enjoy eggs and fledglings.

One afternoon, my husband and I heard a chaotic commotion overhead. Rushing to the deck, we witnessed an aerial battle in progress.

Mom raven defended the nest while her mate pursued a bald eagle to fend off its attack. The raven cawed battle cries, and the eagle screeched in response, with the nestlings joining in with distress calls.

The eagle was ultimately forced to retreat, perching on the crown of a tall fir tree right next to where we stood.

We held our breath as the raven zoomed in at full speed, landing directly beneath the eagle, not taking its eyes off the predator for a moment as it prepared for another attempt.

And then it happened. The eagle dove, swift and silent like an arrow, demonstrating fluidity and speed at its best. The raven followed closely, catching the eagle’s tailwind.

POW! The raven struck the eagle's wing with enough force to alter its trajectory, followed by several more rapid strikes that sent both birds screeching and cawing, with the nestlings adding to the noise.

The raven emerged victorious, and the eagle retreated westward. Our raven family remained safe!

Captivated by their life-and-death struggle, I had been holding my breath until I finally exhaled in relief.

The mighty eagle symbolizes the Great Spirit in Native American cultures. After my mother passed away, my siblings and I decided her ashes should be scattered in a meaningful place. I was entrusted with this task.

I took her ashes to our cabin on the island, where we now live full-time, placing the container in the loft until the right moment arrived.

During our summer vacation, I woke one brilliant morning to hear my mother's voice clearly: "It's time to take me home. You know where I want to be."

And I did, without hesitation. My small family of three donned our hiking shoes and set off to a breathtaking nature preserve at the southern end of our island—one of my favorite spots.

I carried my mother's ashes in my backpack, just as she had carried me within her.

Dramatic cliffs dropped steeply into the sea, while gulls and seals expressed their approval of the day. We carefully descended a precarious path to a small beach by the water’s edge.

I settled onto a driftwood bench and opened the container, listening to the waves lap against the shore as I sifted through the small fragments of her bones