The Baby Turkey Vulture

I live in a college town during the workweek and work for the city government. My job is serious: I manage capital development projects for the city’s water and wastewater systems—work that quietly supports public health and the environment day after day.

Most days, I ride my bike to work. I do it for exercise, but also because it feels right—to reduce my carbon footprint and stay connected to the city I serve. A few months ago, after riding home one late afternoon, I carried my bike up the stairs to my apartment. The building is in a poorer part of town—nothing fancy, just practical and worn, much like the infrastructure I work on.

As I reached the steps, I heard a loud, frantic noise. It was coming from a bird near the stairway—high-pitched, insistent, and unmistakably a call for food. At first, it didn’t make sense; it was early winter, and the bird was far too large to be a typical baby bird you’d expect to see at that time of year.

I looked closer and realized it was a turkey vulture chick.

Before I could fully process that, the bird hopped directly onto my foot—bold, awkward, and clearly distressed. I was holding my bike with both hands, so I set it down and carefully removed the surprisingly heavy, loud bird from my shoe. It wasn’t aggressive—just needy, confused, and very much alive.

As I picked my bike back up and continued up the stairs, the bird followed me. It walked right into my apartment behind me, still squawking loudly, as if it had decided I was now responsible for it. That stopped me in my tracks.

I gently carried the bird back outside and sat with it on the porch for a while. It continued calling—its sound echoing in the quiet neighborhood. I waited, hoping an adult would appear or that something would become clear. Nothing did.

After about an hour, with no obvious solution and no sign of its parents, I placed the bird gently on the front lawn. I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know why it had crossed my path or what it meant—only that for a brief moment, responsibility had landed squarely at my feet.

I went back inside, unsettled, carrying the image with me.

I still think about that bird sometimes. Not because I believe it was a sign of anything grand (or was it?), but because it reminded me how easily life asks something of us without explanation, and how often we’re left to do the best we can with care, even when we don’t fully understand what’s being asked. What is your take of the incident?