Spying on the New Neighbors

Something that brought you joy today...

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Our sunroom is one of my favorite places in the house.  Windows fill three sides.  A bird feeder provides constant entertainment to the east.  The west looks out on the patio.  The southern exposure is the longest.  The span of windows is broken in two places by matching trellises covered in clematis.  Nestled amid the tangled vines my husband discovered a nest.  Working at the computer in the sunroom, his attention was drawn to a flurry of activity.  A mother and father cardinal beat a continuous flight pattern from the bird feeder around the corner to the trellis to where three fluffy baby birds were tucked deeply into the nest.

Each time a parent neared the nest, three wide opened beaks reached high anxiously awaiting the deposit of food.

We wanted to be part of what was going on with this sweet little family.  The parent birds wanted to make sure we knew they were highly aware of our presence on the other side of the windows.  They flitted around attempting to make a diversion.  Finally, they decided we weren't too threatening, but gave us angry bird looks just to make their point.  We were not to get too close.

Once we decided we could all coexist, an amazing thing happened.  One by one the babies took their first shaky, tentative steps outside the nest.

Harry, The First and Most Brave ( His faux-hawk is evidence of his confident air.)

Beaker, The Middle Child (Note the look on his face.  So much attitude.)

And Russell,  The Baby Bird (Devil may care attitude shown in his half smile and sleepy eyes.)

It was incredible watching the babies work up the courage to leave the safety of the nest.  The parents fluttered back and forth in front of the trellis letting out occasional chirps of encouragement.  They remained nearby, but back far enough for each baby to be responsible for himself.  Nature's wisdom.

And every once in a while they would shoot us a look making sure we remembered we were only there with their permission.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers  

That perches in the soul  

And sings the tune without the words 

And never stops - at all  

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard  

And sore must be the storm  

That could abash the little Bird 

That kept so many warm  

I’ve heard it in the chillest land  

And on the strangest Sea  

Yet - never - in Extremity, 

It asked a crumb - of me.

Emily Dickenson