Considering the Birds
This past spring a robin set up housekeeping in a corner of our deck. Not in plain sight of course, but in the hollow of a broken log I use as a plant holder. The broken part of the log faced outside, exposing the center, and that's why the nest-building activities went unnoticed by us. We did, however, soon notice sharp chirps coming from a nearby pine tree whenever we stepped onto the deck, and one morning Paul saw Mother Robin escape from the vicinity of the log. Peering over the deck railing and down into the log, we discovered the nest and four iridescent eggs within. Since neither Paul nor I are home wreckers, we yielded that small hidden space and only occasionally checked on the development of the robin family.*
Not long after our discovery two tiny featherless, flesh-colored blobs with beaks broke from their shells, memorable icons of vulnerability in their naked, helpless exposure to potential predators and bad weather. The only visible proof of life were tiny movements produced by their breathing. Awe-filled, I wondered how they slept so securely with no covering but the terra cotta pot above their heads. The two remaining eggs never hatched, but lay in the bottom of the nest, often buried beneath the small, developing bodies of the hatchlings.
Seemingly overnight, feathers appeared on the chicks, giving the tiny forms color and definition. Within a few days the two, growing more plump and bright-eyed by the hour, were moving around, opening wide their pointy jaws at the slightest sound. Whether or not the chicks were aware of us, they didn't seem frightened and as time passed the mother scolded less from her perch on the pine tree.
Friday morning of Memorial Day Weekend I checked on the chicks and discovered one of them standing in the nest. Certain that the bird hadn't yet had flying lessons, I warned her to be careful. The mother, watching from the pine, chirped the same to me. I went inside the house to eat my breakfast and, returning to the deck for one last look before heading out for work, found that the standing bird had disappeared. Seeing nothing in the grass below, I hurried down the deck stairs to look more closely. No sign of a baby bird, broken or whole, was to be found. Choosing to believe that the first flight had ended well, I ran back up the stairs, leaned over the railing and said goodbye to the remaining chick. I'm glad I did because when I returned home from work that day the nest was empty.
For the past few weeks I've looked for the robin family in the grass and in the trees of ours and the neighbors' yards. Multiple robins fly through our yard daily, but I can't be sure that any of them are ours. I've since removed the nest and remaining two eggs from the log and the broken place now faces the inside of the deck. Worrying about one bird family is enough for one season.
While the robins lived with us, I was moved by the stages of development and vulnerability represented--the small eggs deposited in good faith; the tender chicks when they hatched; the courage and will to step off the deck when it came time to jump (or flutter or fledge). No less exposed after leaving the nest, they must now trust themselves to the robin community to help them learn to fly and feed themselves. Seeing so many mature feathered creatures flying through our yard each day, I have hope that the chicks have a shot at reaching adulthood.
The experience leaves me wondering, though, what prevented the unhatched eggs from producing chicks. Maybe the failure to hatch fits in with the percentage of potential life that never makes it to viability. Or perhaps the unhatched chicks preferred the protection of the fragile shell over a soft, naked emergence into the unknown. I think of the beautiful human creatures that fledged from my front porch and realize that if any of us are to develop into the creatures we were meant to become, we will always negotiate a tension between security and growth, embracing risk and vulnerability.
For a few days the nest and left-behind eggs sat on my potting bench, a souvenir of guests that haven't since shown hide nor feather. A recent deluge demolished the nest and rotted the eggs, so now the whole crumbling mess rests in my compost bin.
Not long after our discovery two tiny featherless, flesh-colored blobs with beaks broke from their shells, memorable icons of vulnerability in their naked, helpless exposure to potential predators and bad weather. The only visible proof of life were tiny movements produced by their breathing. Awe-filled, I wondered how they slept so securely with no covering but the terra cotta pot above their heads. The two remaining eggs never hatched, but lay in the bottom of the nest, often buried beneath the small, developing bodies of the hatchlings.
Seemingly overnight, feathers appeared on the chicks, giving the tiny forms color and definition. Within a few days the two, growing more plump and bright-eyed by the hour, were moving around, opening wide their pointy jaws at the slightest sound. Whether or not the chicks were aware of us, they didn't seem frightened and as time passed the mother scolded less from her perch on the pine tree.
Friday morning of Memorial Day Weekend I checked on the chicks and discovered one of them standing in the nest. Certain that the bird hadn't yet had flying lessons, I warned her to be careful. The mother, watching from the pine, chirped the same to me. I went inside the house to eat my breakfast and, returning to the deck for one last look before heading out for work, found that the standing bird had disappeared. Seeing nothing in the grass below, I hurried down the deck stairs to look more closely. No sign of a baby bird, broken or whole, was to be found. Choosing to believe that the first flight had ended well, I ran back up the stairs, leaned over the railing and said goodbye to the remaining chick. I'm glad I did because when I returned home from work that day the nest was empty.
For the past few weeks I've looked for the robin family in the grass and in the trees of ours and the neighbors' yards. Multiple robins fly through our yard daily, but I can't be sure that any of them are ours. I've since removed the nest and remaining two eggs from the log and the broken place now faces the inside of the deck. Worrying about one bird family is enough for one season.
While the robins lived with us, I was moved by the stages of development and vulnerability represented--the small eggs deposited in good faith; the tender chicks when they hatched; the courage and will to step off the deck when it came time to jump (or flutter or fledge). No less exposed after leaving the nest, they must now trust themselves to the robin community to help them learn to fly and feed themselves. Seeing so many mature feathered creatures flying through our yard each day, I have hope that the chicks have a shot at reaching adulthood.
The experience leaves me wondering, though, what prevented the unhatched eggs from producing chicks. Maybe the failure to hatch fits in with the percentage of potential life that never makes it to viability. Or perhaps the unhatched chicks preferred the protection of the fragile shell over a soft, naked emergence into the unknown. I think of the beautiful human creatures that fledged from my front porch and realize that if any of us are to develop into the creatures we were meant to become, we will always negotiate a tension between security and growth, embracing risk and vulnerability.
For a few days the nest and left-behind eggs sat on my potting bench, a souvenir of guests that haven't since shown hide nor feather. A recent deluge demolished the nest and rotted the eggs, so now the whole crumbling mess rests in my compost bin.
*We checked on the progress of the birds only occasionally so that we would not repeat a mistake we made with another family of robins. See http://fellowshipofthejourney.blogspot.com/2014/12/o-christmas-tree.html.
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