By Elaine Callahan
Autumn has arrived, and all bird-nesting activities have ceased. Thankfully.
“You’ll miss them when they’re gone,” my husband said one morning, as I ducked down to take a peek at the ledge on the front porch, covered with mud, plastic tape, and an assortment of sticks and moss.
When the pair of little, dark-headed birds kept insistently trying to glue gobs of red mud and twigs haphazardly on a one-inch-deep ledge above our white-columned, formal front porch, I made a morning routine of going out, armed with broom, and sweeping away the fallen debris from their latest efforts. The pitiful “nest” seemed like it would never be completed. Our Phoebes had not taken a physics course, obviously. But they were persistent, and the nesting instinct caused these little creatures to frantically keep at their project, every day, only to find it falling to the slate porch regularly.
What to do? Not being sure about the egg-laying schedule of little feathered things, I assumed that the eggs would arrive soon, much like a term baby, and … oh, no … still no nest in which to lay them.
Perhaps I should block off the area intended for the nursery, and the Phoebes would be forced to build elsewhere, hopefully in time for the arrival of their little family.
Collecting an old towel and lots of plastic tape, I shakily mounted a ladder, and after wiping away the remains of mud and moss from yesterday’s project, I carefully rolled up the towel and laid it along the narrow ledge, and secured it with lengths of tape. After putting the ladder away, I peeked out from the window, and sure enough, parents with gunk in their beaks flew around a few times, and then headed off to the woods, confused, but hopefully with a new sense of purpose.
It was a pleasure to wash off the front porch, and walk by during the morning to see it free of mud. I had the happy thought of having done “the right thing” as I left for work.
Evening came, dinner was ready, and thoughts of little birds had left my mind. I passed by the glass door on the way to the kitchen with a habitual duck to look up at the porch ledge.
Can this be possible?
There was a completed nest, sitting on top of the taped towel, and the mother birdie looking over the edge, catching me peeking! Was that a look of triumph, irritation, or appreciation on her feathered face?
Well, we’ve always thought it wrong to interfere with nature. We resigned ourselves to put up with the mud stains, bird droppings, and general mess for the next few weeks. Such determined birdie parents deserved to have their family. Story ended. Almost.
Yes, I did mount the ladder again about mid-way through the incubation period to confirm that there were three little eggs. A week later, there were little bare blobs of flesh that felt cool to the touch. But all was not as it should be.
Alas! The taped towel had come loose on one end, and was falling away from the ledge, pulling the nest along with it.
Yes, I made a third trip with the ladder, to re-tape the towel and confirm that all was indeed well with the hatchlings.
Within another week, three little faces would peer down at me when I ventured a look – little black heads with bright eyes, and feathers that stood up like hair on a moussed punk rocker. Cute!
“I think they’ll leave today, “my son said, several days later as we observed a general over-crowding in the little nest. The fledglings were so large that they seemed to perch with one foot in the next and the other on the towel. They were really big.
Late afternoon arrived.
“Mom, the birds DID leave this morning,” my son said as he called the office.
It was really weird. You’d think after looking at us through the glass door all those days, they would have figured out that this was a house, but all three of them fluttered right down into the door, and sat on the porch, stunned for a little while. But they finally took off again, with mom and dad chirping encouragement.”
So I once again climbed the latter, armed with a scrub brush and 409. The mud stains remain, however, and I still have the habit of ducking down by the glass door and peering up, just in case. I guess we do miss them, in spite of the mess. Maybe next spring?
