Robins began to build a nest in the elbow of the downspout at the corner of the house I rent. I would see them at work when I sat on the porch. They began construction sometime in late April. In February I went to a “Feathers and Fermentation” event hosted by the birder known as Wesley Homoya; the event included a visit to the Eagle Creek Park Ornithology Center, where the participants saw a film about the springtime shenanigans of birds making babies. When the robins began to gather sticks, weeds and dry grasses, I knew that a nest was coming. Robins built a nest in the downspout of the in front of my previous apartment (“Nest Trilogy,” July 22nd, 2016.)
Ornithologists and the “Wild Kratts” of PBS Kids’ fame are privy to the nest-building proclivities of wild birds. Me — not so much. I found a wounded ruby-throated hummingbird in my back yard, and “BirdMan” Wes told me to look for a tree that might have the nest from which it had fallen. I knew that hummingbirds build their nests WAY HIGH in trees, and my fear of heights would keep me from placing the baby bird back in the nest, even if I could have found it. So, I took it to bird rehabber Liz Hatton, and it became “bird number 338,” a designation for rehabbers to report to state and federal governments in accordance with the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918. (They had time for that Act, while the country was busy with the whole Spanish Flu thing?)
I watched the robins craft their nest; American robins (Turdus migratorius) are ubiquitous in the Midwest, with males and females having similar coloring, so I could not encourage Mom, or Dad in its homemaking enterprise. Weeds, small sticks and dry grasses were gathered from the lawns and streets of the neighborhood. Every morning, my two-year-old granddaughter and I would say, “Hi, Tweet!” as we watched either mom or dad sitting in the bowl and pressing it into a more perfect circle. Soon, a robin was sitting longer on the nest, and then there was a flurry of activity as mom and dad scavenged among the grasses and brought grubs and other bugs back to the nest. Little birdy heads would pop up to snag the groceries proffered and cheep approval and thanks. This went on for a time, until the baby birds left the nest, unseen by and unbeknownst to me and Myah. I sat in my chair on the porch, mourning the fledging of the young birds. And then, some house sparrows began checking out the abandoned property.
Now, I am no birdist; I don’t care if it’s a red cardinal, yellow goldfinch, purple martin or Black Crowes . . . (wait: that’s a band, right?) They are all welcome at my feeder, but these house sparrows, when they took over the neatly compacted Robin’s nest, turned it into a raggedy, hot mess. I mean, what self-respecting bird uses the discarded plastic sleeve of a popsicle to make its house? And fiberglass house insulation? The sparrows built the nest up into a conical shape, and the “cheeps” of the babies echoed as the parents popped insects into their beaks. After a time, I noticed the nest being deconstructed; the baby birds were busting out.
The nest is bereft of babies now, and leaves and grasses and string and vines and plastic hang down from the spout, waiting for the next generation of occupants to find it. Perhaps my landlord will allow me to sublet; I will charge only joy.
cjon3acd@att.net