For those of us who enjoy observing nature and the wildlife that inhabits therein are often gifted with graceful and beautiful exhibitions of Mother Nature in process. Maybe it’s a Carolina chickadee flying down to perch on the birdbath dripper, not descending to the pool, but hop-inching toward the opening at the end of the tube where fresh water drips. Let’s get to the good stuff would be a good caption for such a picture.
Or maybe it’s marveling at how columbine, day lilly, and black-eyed susans thrive with such a colorful show in mildly fertilized earth with benefit of just water and sunlight.
Still, if one watches for long, and especially if one celebrates such wonder with the grandkids, some ugly and puzzling lessons are also observed. Ugly is, of course, a subjective judgement, but if one celebrates the miracles of nature with kids, one is left with explaining some of that magic gone horribly awry, or so it would seem.
As written about in a previous blog, back in mid-June I was sitting on the back porch and heard some kind of pinging of something unknown to me. I looked around, but couldn’t identify it. After hearing it a couple more times, I found it was an American robin taking some hacks on our downspout -- the part that bends just below the roof soffit and out of the weather -- as she was contemplating the spot for nest building. She seemed to have liked what she found, because a collection of materials was observed growing on the spot. I once saw her fly in with a stick, place it with the others already there, and then hunker down on the spot, apparently sizing the opening of the nest. Within a couple more days, the nest had grown to completion and the observation of Nature’s miracle of egg-laying and hatching begun. Great stuff for visiting grandkids, don’t you know.
As the robin-making process continued, I was disappointed to discover that I could spook the adult off the nest pretty easily by just walking down the sidewalk at that corner of the house. I would have avoided the area completely if I could have, but unfortunately, the little out building that houses the lawn mower and gardening tools is just adjacent to that corner of the house, and, I decided, we would just have to co-exist for the duration of the robin-rearing. I tried walking slowly and pulling my hat down over my face, not making eye contact, hoping such behavior would seem less threatening to mother robin. Sometimes it worked, but more often than not, she jumped the nest.
Within a week or so, we saw little robin heads with their huge jaws poking up over the side of the nest. I counted three hungry bumpkins, and occasionally, from a safe distance down on the porch, saw mom fly in with squirming sustenance. Very cool indeed. Noah got the binocs out at least once to get a better view.
But then just a day after an active chick-sighting, all seemed too quiet in the nest. No mother. At all. And the observation of a collection of bird guano on the stone walk just beneath the nest. It didn’t look good. I pulled the extension ladder off the house, and climbed up for a look. Sure enough. No babies. They were gone. No way they could have fledged so soon. It was my fantasy that some bluejay made an easy lunch of the young ones. Noah and Grammy and I talked it over. So it goes with nature, we said. Everybody has to eat. At 9 years old, Noah seemed to understand.
And then last week we noticed loud Carolina wren song out front. Just off the front porch, we have a bird box that has seen a few hatchings over past summers, and so it was again. This time it was a couple of adult birds working and watching the area. A couple days ago I observed a wren beaking an ant into submission, then flying off with it, presumably to feed young. Yesterday another observation of a wren beating up on a small caterpillar, tossing it up in the air, banging on the little beast with its beak, and chasing it around the porch, tossing it again, until it became docile. Then, sure enough, up to the nesting box it flew and in with a load of nutrition.
I love birds. I love trees. I love nature. I love storms. I so enjoy sitting and being quiet, hearing cicada and bird song fill warm summer air. Even with the air conditioner on, I still crack the bedroom window, just so we can hear nocturnal critters making their nighttime sounds as we fall asleep.
I am sure somebody’s getting eaten out there, but I’m also aware that life goes on. And at my age, I am also very aware of my place on the great mandala. In a very natural way, I find it all a comfort.
Today’s elder idea: Several of Nature’s People I know, and they know me -- I feel for them a transport of cordiality...
Emily Dickinson
image: New Haven Camera Club (internet download)
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