Mama Bird
For several years we lived just two hours from our “getaway”, Riverhouse, and were there at least every other week. The local “critters” seemed to accept our presence, from the family of chipmunks who lived in the low stone wall just outside the door, to the bear who routinely overturned our composter, and on occasion destroyed our birdfeeders. The deer also visited, and once in a while a whisper-gray coyote drifted by up on the hill. And the birds! The birds filled our trees, and the spunky little hummingbirds hovered insistently outside our large window until we put out the feeder each spring. We were there often enough in those days that the boundaries between human and beast were jointly acknowledged and well-observed, and we rarely trespassed on each other’s territory.
The time came, though, that we moved farther away, and our trips to Riverhouse became irregular and sadly infrequent. The boundaries between us and the local wildlife eventually moved toward the environs of the house, and the birds began building nests each year right on the ledge over the French doors leading to hill at the back of the house.
This was problematic. These were the doors we used all the time, and each opening and closing threatened to shake loose the gently clinging nests. During one visit I noticed a mama bird steadfastly sitting her nest atop our doors. She would flutter briefly each time we came in or out, but she would not leave her nest. Her devotion amazed me, and we became increasingly aware of the force and frequency of our comings and goings. More and more often we used the inconvenient front door, avoiding disturbing the nest at the back. Always we were aware that each time we looked, Mama bird was on her nest.
As we packed the car to leave that week, we spoke of ways to discourage future nest builders, once the eggs in this nest were hatched and gone. We drove away, and gave no more thought to the young we knew would soon be hatching, and to their devoted mother.
Some months passed by before we were able to return to Riverhouse. We unpacked the car and opened up the house. Curtains were pulled back, windows opened and ceiling fans turned on. As I pulled back the floor-length blackout drapes at the French doors I glanced up at the ledge above. And there was the nest, and the Mama bird. Knowing the worst, I quietly went outside and gently touched the tip of her tail feathers. Stillness – only stillness. She had died, sitting on her nest, guarding her young.
For several years we lived just two hours from our “getaway”, Riverhouse, and were there at least every other week. The local “critters” seemed to accept our presence, from the family of chipmunks who lived in the low stone wall just outside the door, to the bear who routinely overturned our composter, and on occasion destroyed our birdfeeders. The deer also visited, and once in a while a whisper-gray coyote drifted by up on the hill. And the birds! The birds filled our trees, and the spunky little hummingbirds hovered insistently outside our large window until we put out the feeder each spring. We were there often enough in those days that the boundaries between human and beast were jointly acknowledged and well-observed, and we rarely trespassed on each other’s territory.
The time came, though, that we moved farther away, and our trips to Riverhouse became irregular and sadly infrequent. The boundaries between us and the local wildlife eventually moved toward the environs of the house, and the birds began building nests each year right on the ledge over the French doors leading to hill at the back of the house.
This was problematic. These were the doors we used all the time, and each opening and closing threatened to shake loose the gently clinging nests. During one visit I noticed a mama bird steadfastly sitting her nest atop our doors. She would flutter briefly each time we came in or out, but she would not leave her nest. Her devotion amazed me, and we became increasingly aware of the force and frequency of our comings and goings. More and more often we used the inconvenient front door, avoiding disturbing the nest at the back. Always we were aware that each time we looked, Mama bird was on her nest.
As we packed the car to leave that week, we spoke of ways to discourage future nest builders, once the eggs in this nest were hatched and gone. We drove away, and gave no more thought to the young we knew would soon be hatching, and to their devoted mother.
Some months passed by before we were able to return to Riverhouse. We unpacked the car and opened up the house. Curtains were pulled back, windows opened and ceiling fans turned on. As I pulled back the floor-length blackout drapes at the French doors I glanced up at the ledge above. And there was the nest, and the Mama bird. Knowing the worst, I quietly went outside and gently touched the tip of her tail feathers. Stillness – only stillness. She had died, sitting on her nest, guarding her young.
| I don’t know what birds feel, and I wouldn’t dishonor her by attributing human emotion to her avian mind and heart. But I know ferocity when I see it, and devotion, and willingness to sacrifice for the good of a beloved. This mother bird humbled me, and I mourn her – and I regret my part in her dying, and mourn all the ways we walk upon our world with ill result. | 
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