A wild kestrel landed on my window—and we became friends.

It began one ordinary afternoon when the world seemed still, and I was at my desk near the window, half-absorbed in work. That was when I noticed him—a small, wild kestrel, perched on the window ledge as though it had always belonged there. His eyes were bright, alert yet strangely calm, and his feathers still bore faint traces of soft baby down, a clear sign he was young and not long out of the nest.

I froze. I had read often about kestrels—fierce hunters, predators of the sky, bold acrobats of the wind. But this little one seemed fragile, his wings slightly drooping, his breath visible in tiny puffs as though flight had taken much out of him. He didn’t flinch at my presence, didn’t retreat in alarm as most wild birds do when confronted with humans. Instead, he tilted his head, regarding me with a quiet curiosity that felt almost human.

For a long moment, we simply observed each other through the glass. The silence between us was not uncomfortable but charged, as though an invisible bridge had formed in that instant. I dared to slide the window open slowly, half expecting him to vanish in a flurry of wings. But he did not move.

Heart pounding, I extended a tentative hand. To my astonishment, he allowed it. My fingers brushed the delicate feathers of his chest—soft, warm, alive. He didn’t shy away. He merely stood, uncertain perhaps, but not afraid. And in that moment, I felt a bond spark between us, fragile but undeniable.

He had come as a guest, I decided, and a guest must be treated with kindness. I went to the kitchen, sliced strips of pork, and offered them. He accepted eagerly, his beak snapping lightly but carefully, never once biting too hard, almost as though he understood the limits of my skin. He ate with the desperation of hunger but also with the restraint of gentleness.

That night, I left the window open, should he wish to rest longer or take his leave. He stayed.

The next morning, when I woke, he was gone. I felt an unexpected pang of emptiness, as though a fleeting dream had evaporated. But by midday, the sound of talons scraping against the window frame startled me. There he was again—my little kestrel, looking up at me as though to say, “I’ve returned.”

This time, I had chicken ready. He accepted it, just as eagerly as before. He even flew inside for a moment, hopping from sill to desk, exploring cautiously yet with surprising confidence. Was it possible he had understood me the day before, when I told him I’d prepare more food?

Day after day, he came. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, but always with the same look of gentle expectation. He grew bolder, more animated. He would chirp softly, flap his wings, sometimes slip awkwardly as though still practicing the art of balance. At times, he seemed to scold me with sharp little cries when the food ran out, only to return moments later to his delicate, careful eating.

Each day, I learned something about him. That despite his species’ reputation as fierce hunters, he possessed a gentleness when faced with trust. That wildness and tenderness could coexist in one fragile body. That a bond between human and bird, though brief, could feel profound.

Eight days passed like this. Eight days of shared meals, of silent observation, of wonder at the miracle of his presence. And then—he was gone.

He did not return the ninth day. Nor the tenth. I left the window open, food prepared, heart quietly hoping. But I knew. He had grown stronger, regained his energy, remembered his place in the sky. He had flown back to the life he was meant to live: free, fierce, untamed.

I should have felt sadness. And yet what I felt most was gratitude. Gratitude for the unexpected visitor who chose to trust me. Gratitude for the chance to witness his beauty up close, to touch feathers still soft from youth, to hear the faint cries of hunger and joy.

Fate had delivered him to my window, and fate had carried him away. But in those eight days, a story had been written, not in words but in glances, in gentle pecks, in the silence of a bird resting at a window.

Perhaps it is better this way. For friendship, like flight, is meant to be free. I wish him long skies, safe winds, abundant prey, and a life lived fiercely. And I carry with me the memory of the little kestrel who, for a short while, was not just a wild bird, but my friend.