If hope is the thing with feathers, as poet Emily Dickinson wrote, what does it mean when you collide with a baby bird while jogging? This has been on my mind after — true story — it happened to me.

It was a Monday morning earlier this month, the final half-mile of my 4-mile route and on a particularly scenic city street. A low-flying flock of … three or four birds, I believe … crossed from the other side, perhaps scared out of their nest by a power washer.

The straggler of the flock, and my right leg, met at the exact same time, at the exact same spot, on the sidewalk. The poor birdie bounced off my right shin bone and fell to the ground. It tried to get back up but fell again, then half-staggered, half-rolled/flew behind some bushes in front of a house. And this occurred at the exact same moment a cat sauntered by. Of course, the cat jumped in after the bird.

I tried distracting the cat by saying, “Hey kitty! Look at me!” I also tried getting help from the homeowner, but no one answered the doorbell. After several minutes, I left. Along with a lingering feeling of sorrow over what happened, I also worry about the symbolism. Tell me, is everything still gonna be all right if there’s one fewer birdie to sing a melody pure and true?

(Speaking of birds: There’s a story of an inconveniently timed nest construction in the first chapter of my book, Romance Redux.)

This is the cat, these are the bushes.