The blue recycling bin lies flat across the asphalt of the driveway. Lid blown wide open, its contents scattered across the front lawn. Howling winds left cardboard debris tangled in branches of the maple tree. I walk out to clean up the mess and find a baby robin on its back gasping. From the eavestrough, two frantic robins watch me, red chests swollen with grief. I do nothing, except go back inside and watch from the window. The mother and father take turns swooping from ground to branch and back again. The next morning, the baby robin is gone and just like that – We find ourselves mourning what it must be like to be born with wings and never fly.