Back on the patio, the bird has its eyes shut and seems stunned. It's far from being part of that raucous band of juveniles that have just discovered their wings and come storming into our garden to squabble over the bird feeders before vanishing with a bang and a flap.
The Northerner tries to get it to shift from one hand to the other, then gently raises and lowers his arms to let the bird feel the air beneath its wings, like you're supposed to do if you come across a grounded swift, but it just sits.
It has the tiniest bead of blood on one wing, and I fret that the other might be damaged as the way the bird's holding it isn't entirely symmetrical with the other. And is its foot broken? - No, it's OK, it's gripping a finger.