Empty Nest

After a week of watching The Bird Channel, I'm an "empty nester" now.

I did get to witness the first flight of one of the chicks, while its sibling (who had left the nest just minutes earlier) flapped around on the ground below, trying to figure out how to get airborne again.

Originally, there was a third chick. Their sizes varied a lot, probably due to hatching order. I couldn't even see the smallest one until the day after I spotted the first two. A few days later, it disappeared. I don't know what happened, but it clearly didn't survive.

That knowledge made me panicky at first (Can't I DO something?), then sad and shocked, then surprised at my own shock. Did I really think that wild animals would be exempt from losing their babies, too? Of course not. I've just never seen it right on my own patio before.

Rest in peace, little Number Three. Have a good life, Numbers One and Two. Thanks for sharing your childhood with me!

Do I dare?

Backyard Babies

Although I didn't look forward to spring this year, it's been winning me over anyway. Seeing animal families with their little ones doesn't sadden me the way that seeing human babies can.

First came the lambs and ducklings. Then, driving through the forest one night, I rounded a bend a quarter-mile from home and saw two pairs of glowing eyes. One was much lower than the other. A red fox and her kit! The kit was very small, around the size of my cat. While Mom finished crossing the road and disappeared into the brush, the little one wandered toward my headlights in confusion. It was less than ten feet away and coming even closer! For a moment, I think we were both hypnotized. I wanted to sit there and watch, even to get out and touch … but, knowing better, I drove off before the fox could get too close to my wheels or another car could come.

The latest babies to show up are three robins in a nest on my patio.

the nest

They're chirping as I write this! I first saw them this week, and it's amazing how much they've grown in just a few days. Or maybe it's not so amazing when you consider all the feedings (about 5 an hour) they get. Their parents are constantly busy, hopping through the grass and plucking out worms.

Dad

Mom

At first, the adults were very suspicious of me. Getting the first photos took some patient, sweaty, mosquito-bitten waiting. Now the adults don't hesitate to come feed the chicks when I'm sitting right there outside. They're learning to read my body language, and I'm learning their language, too: the "peek-tut" call that signifies a possible low-grade threat ("That lady with the camera is out here AGAIN!"), versus the alarm call that means they will bunker down somewhere safe for a while.

Watching these little dramas close-up has really been a treat. Since they won't be here long (two weeks from hatching to fledging), I've rearranged my living room to get a better view. It reminds me of how, when I was working long hours in a cubicle a few years ago, I got briefly obsessed with birdcams. They were a glimpse of nature in an otherwise nature-less world.

Now there's a real-life nest literally ten feet from my back door. I can catch all the details that make up a good story: Mom scolding Dad for displacing her before she's done with a feeding, the little ones snapping their beaks at a bee that comes too close, the little ones testing their wings. If I'm very lucky, maybe I'll be here to witness their first flight. It won’t be long.

little ones

not-so-little ones

That Did Not Just Happen

The forget-me-not seeds that I planted last month in memory of my baby took a while to come up, but since then they've grown well.  Doting on them has become a nice part of my routine. Every day, I go outside to check their soil for moisture, pluck and fuss over them, and spend a few moments thinking of Baby P.

The other day, I noticed that they were looking a little waterlogged after a rain. They're in a small pot that's wedged tightly inside another (ornamental) pot. When I picked up the outer pot to pour out the water that had settled in the bottom, most of the dirt and plants suddenly spilled out too, dumping the whole mess onto the ground and flinging muddy splatters everywhere—onto my fence, my jeans, and into the cup of tea I'd brought outside to enjoy. It was a spectacular mess. I just stood there staring at it. Then I said, out loud, two times, "That did not just happen. THAT did NOT just happen!"

Because these plants had special meaning to me, it was hard not to attach way too much meaning to the accident, too. Of all the pots on my patio, I had to mess up this one? Was it a reflection of my mothering skills (or lack thereof)?? This wasn't a little wilting on a hot day, because I'd watered them late; this was SPLAT, good-bye, the whole lot dumped unceremoniously upside-down. What could I do? I scooped the seedlings back into their pot, tried to sew their tiny roots back into the soil, then gave them a blessing and a well-deserved apology.

The outcome? So far, I've been relieved to see that they seem to be recovering just fine. "It's OK," I can almost hear them saying when I come outside to dote and fuss over them now. "We're growing up. Maybe you can, you know, back off a little and just let us do our own thing!"