Hatch Watch

Nothing like a baby to change your life. We're on hatch watch here at the bird sanctuary. The first baby robins made their appearance this morning, and apparently I don't really mind that their mother's nesting killed my flowers. It seems I'm over that.

Three chicks have hatched, one to go.

The nest location may be less than ideal from a human perspective--an arm's length from our front door, only five feet from the ground--but that makes it a perfect spot for observation, no ladder required. We spent the day checking in, even dragged visitors to the porch to see. As we've done in previous years of too-close nests (although this one takes the extreme proximity prize), we have roped off the entrance to minimize traffic around the newborns.

The door is barred, the dog puzzled.

The adult robins tend their young, seemingly unperturbed by our presence. According to this Wikipedia (fount of all facts) entry, robins raise two or three broods each season, with each "clutch" consisting of 3-5 eggs (henceforth I shall refer to my kids collectively as a clutch). I wonder now if these are the same birds that nested in our garage earlier this year. Could it be that this latest nest was built even closer to human habitation on purpose, to ward off predators? Mothers are shrewd that way. 

There's nothing more common than a robin; a nest filled with blue eggs hardly counts as an earth-shattering discovery in our parts. Still, just as people bored by babies in general may one day discover a source of endless fascination in their own particular babies, so it is with our robins.

Birdbrain

Another day, another nest. The avian real estate boom continues.

This nest is located on the porch about a meter from our main entrance--the busiest spot a birdbrain could have picked. Every time someone arrives, the robin mom-to-be swoops past at head height. It's a horror movie.

I like nature as much as the next person, but enough with the gushing over baby birds: I was peeved to find this nest emerging from the top tier of my planter, into which I had JUST, FINALLY, stuck some petunias. You can barely see a squished sprig of green struggling to grow out from under the muddy twigs. The power of plant life is nothing short of awesome (see my earlier post on weed survival), but smart money is on the birds here.

 

Still, this.

Letting nature take its course.

On Resilience

As I type, rain continues to fall, relentless dripping that soon will wash away the crust of snow left during the storm of the last two days. It is still cold outside. My walk (desperately needed) is now looking unlikely to happen. I will have to get over that small setback without undue crankiness to loved ones.

Yesterday folks were posting photos of ice-encased branches: gorgeous crystalline chill forms of wonder. Trees have fallen, and hydro crews are still working to restore power to our region. We lost power only briefly but were bereft without internet, phone and television service for hours. Everyone was home, squabbling for rights to the computer as it flickered in and out of consciousness. That's a revelation in itself, as worthy of contemplation as spring's fickle reversals: how dependent we have become on the steady drip of the electronic IV.  And not just for entertainment, but for everything: information, commerce, communication of all kinds, and of course, work. These are legitimate needs in the age of no-interesting-paper-mail. Still, the realization of electrodependency makes me want to retreat to an unwired room for regular bouts of disconnection, just to make sure I can still cope. 

These pansies were advertised as frost-resistant, and they've certainly passed the test. The photos were taken about a week ago after a night of below-freezing temperatures. The flowers sulked, claiming to be camera-shy, but sprang upright soon enough, tracking the sun. Today, after two days of being battered by freezing rain and wind, they look much the same. I'm not sure how modern horticulture has accomplished this feat--are these Frankenpansies or what? All I know is, they provide today's lesson in resilience.