Imagine a hospital without ambulances.

Imagine patients, in desperate need of treatment, unable to get help.

That’s the situation at my local wild bird hospital. The birds that arrive there are often hungry, in shock and in pain. They may be baby birds fallen from the nest, or whose parents have died. They may be injured as a result of collisions with windows, powerlines, or cars. They may be entangled in discarded fishing line. They may be sick, from botulism or avian flu. And the only way that they can get help is if a volunteer drives the bird to the hospital.

This summer, I started volunteering as a “transporter”, as the volunteer ambulance drivers for the bird hospital are known. Of course, I don’t have an ambulance, a siren or flashing lights. Just a regular car, which over the months has filled with the tools of the trade: plastic bags, towels, cardboard boxes and plastic totes. Duct tape (to assemble the boxes), and a knife (to punch air holes in the assembled boxes). Leather gloves for protection against beaks and claws, vinyl gloves and bleach for protection against disease.

By mid-August, most birds have raised one or two broods of babies and are regrowing feathers and replenishing energy stores in preparation for migration, or winter. But some of our resident birds are taking advantage of longer, warmer summers to work on a third brood, and last week I got a call for an injured baby American Robin.

The caller said that she’d found the bird that morning, on the lawn, and moved it into the shade of a tree. When baby birds first leave the nest (a process known as fledging) they often can’t fly, and sit helplessly on the ground yelling to their parents for food. The parents will continue to take care of the baby, though it’s vulnerable to predators. Fledglings (as babies at this stage are known) don’t need to go to the hospital – unless they’re injured. This one had a suspected leg fracture.

Arriving at the caller’s home, I was horrified to find the fledgling at the bottom of a flight of concrete steps leading below-ground.  It was so dark and dirty on the steps that I could hardly see the bird - but I could hear the constant cheeping of “Feed me! Feed me!”. Every now and then the bird would open its beak wide, revealing bright yellow feathers that flashed like sunshine in the gloom. And now I could also hear the frantic calls of an adult American Robin, no doubt one of the parents, alarmed at our presence so close to its baby.

“She’s been bringing him earthworms for hours”, said the caller.

The parent Robin’s calls grew increasingly distressed as I picked up the fledgling, put it in a towel-lined box, and took it to my car. It must have been awful for the bird to see its baby taken away by a seeming predator, after it had spent weeks incubating eggs and feeding nestlings.

But of course, I had no way to explain to the bird that I was trying to help. And in any case, I needed to get the baby Robin to the hospital before they closed for the day.  On a good day, the drive would be about an hour, but at 4 p.m. on a Friday afternoon I was looking at rush hour traffic that was getting worse by the minute. “Now’s when I need the siren and flashing lights”, I thought to myself.

I wondered whether - if I had a siren, flashing lights and a big sign saying “Bird Ambulance” – any of the other drivers would care enough to let me pass. And, of those who would, would they feel differently on learning it was an American Robin, a common garden bird, not a Bald Eagle or some other rare and charismatic species?

As someone concerned about climate change, I sometimes ponder the carbon footprint of these trips to the bird hospital. Yet, despite years working on the science and policy of climate change, there are days when transporting birds to the hospital feels like the most meaningful thing I do. Policy change is slow – much slower than it needs to be – and days and weeks can go by with only bad news. In contrast, holding a wild bird in my hand, taking it to care, is tangible and immediately gratifying.

When I got to the hospital, one of the staff confirmed my fears: the bird had multiple leg fractures. I hope that s/he can be treated and someday released back to the wild. I suspect a sadder ending, a release from pain in the form of euthanasia. I tell myself that either way it’s better for the bird than lying broken, in the dark, at the bottom of concrete steps.

Driving home, I remembered what one of the hospital volunteers told me one time when I said that I wished that I could do more: “We all do what we can”. The baby bird’s parents did what they could. They couldn’t fix a broken leg, but they could and did keep bringing earthworms. I can’t halt climate change or the global extinction crisis. But, bird by bird, I do what I can.