I was reading the paper in the little light-filled den on the southeast corner of our house the other morning when I heard the telltale “whump” of bird hitting glass. I got up to assess the damage and was relieved to see neither chickadee nor titmouse lying lifeless on the floor of the deck. But as I turned away, a flutter of motion caught my eye. Under a little plant stand out at the edge of the deck I saw the small bird flapping a helpless wing. I went out and gently picked it up, easing the other wing out from between two deck planks. Once settled in my palm, though, the little bird just rolled over onto its side, breathing, but, I figured, probably not for long.

And what a pretty thing. No, this wasn’t a chickadee or a titmouse, or a nuthatch or a winter-faded goldfinch—the familiar birds whose gray-black plumage matches the fading year. Here was a bird with a bright yellow, black-streaked breast and a cheery little yellow rump-spot as well. As I freely confess in The Armchair Birder (see “Confusing Fall Warblers”), I’m no warbler expert—largely because they never visit me here in my little piece of woodland. But here came one of the prettiest—a magnolia, if my reading of Peterson is correct—only to crash and break itself on my all-glass deck door.

I turned it right-side-up in my palm, and it seemed to perch there steadily enough, clearly on its feet rather than crumpled on its underside, eyes open, breath still regular. I held it like that for a couple of minutes, then, with other things to tend to, I eased it down onto the deck rail, where it continued to perch. When I checked five minutes later, it was still there. After another five minutes it was gone.

I know there’s every probability that it didn’t make it, that it toppled off the rail and onto the ground underneath the nandina. But we’ve all seen instances of birds being stunned by flying into windows, then recovering after a few minutes and flying away none the worse for the mishap.

So I’m hoping. I’m not checking.