The rock garden by our kitchen door often becomes overgrown with what we have planted, but it does not bother me. It is obscured from public view, shielded by a stockade fence, and it has provided a snug home for more than a few small animals.

One morning I saw an odd bird in the rock garden, a tiny brown sparrow, fully feathered but obviously very young. Although very small, it was perfectly formed except that its head was turned sharply to one side.

Curious, I watched the small visitor hop from rock to rock, but it never straightened its head forward. The turn was severe, a right angle, and it was difficult to imagine how such a malformed bird could eat or drink.

I thought it even more remarkable the little bird had survived so long, as mother birds usually push faultily developed chicks from the nest and let them die. But the runt with the crook neck seemed oblivious to the severe odds against its life, for it hopped gamely among the rocks, bending and twisting its body as it looked for food.

From curiosity I slowly approached the stunted chick, and it fluttered desperately and awkwardly to the far side of the rock garden. There it remained, its bright black eyes regarding me warily.

I had little hope the waif would survive, but nonetheless I poured mounds of bird seed among the rocks, and I placed shallow containers of water in several places. My movement caused the tiny bird some consternation, and it fluttered uncertainly to keep its distance from me.

The next morning it was still there, and seemingly healthy. I again approached it, now giving a low, crooning whistle.

The little bird skipped around so its eyes were positioned to see me, and it promptly fluttered to the far side of the garden.

I checked on our visitor several times that day and saw that eating was indeed a struggle for him.

His pecking was uncertain and his balance precarious. But he labored and persevered at food in the garden and overall seemed to manage all right.

A few times I approached him with a crooning whistle, but he would have none of me. With tiny wings desperately beating, he put distance between us.

I called my wife, Terry, to see our foundling, and she was charmed with him. Immediately she named him Rocky. What better name for a scrappy underdog who lives in a rock garden?

Rocky grew little in the following week, but his wings began to beat more certainly. Soon he could gain an altitude of a few feet above the ground and flutter a distance of several yards. Occasionally I found him outside the rocks, in the grass by the side of the house, but he always returned to the sanctuary of the garden.

Whenever I replenished his food or water, my crooning whistle seemed to reassure him. Rocky would permit me to approach within a few feet before his beating wings abruptly carried him away. Once, when I found him atop a garbage can, he let me approach so close that I touched the top of his tiny brown head. In a twinkling, his wings beat the air, and he flew to the middle of the garden.

Rocky grew in the following days and more often ventured into the grass. One morning I went to check on him, and there was a small sparrow perched in the garden, but its head was straight on its neck, pointed forward. Surprised, I whistled.

The bird's head snapped to the side, to a right angle, and stayed there. It was indeed Rocky, but now I realized something that his mother must have known: The muscles in his neck were only tardy in their development; they were now gaining strength.

Those neck muscles developed so quickly that after a few days his head remained forward. One morning I stepped outside the kitchen door and Rocky flew up from the rocks, above the irises, and higher, above the rose bushes, finally landing on the edge of the rain gutter. His little head turned smartly left and right as his black eyes surveyed the world below him.

He left home only a few days later, still small for a sparrow, but fully able to eat and fly.

Sometimes now I see a small sparrow in the rock garden, and I am sure it is Rocky. I whistle and approach him, but to no avail. He flies away.

He no longer needs me.

First Published: April 13, 2011, 8:00 a.m.