Monday, April 12, 2010
Each spring they build them. Little shelters of moss, grass, twigs, but also shreds of plastic Wal-Mart shopping bags, paper towels and cellophane. Sometimes they use the discarded wool I leave out. I find locks of hair from the past groomings of long dead dogs, much beloved. Cozy little wreckages. Twisted heaps of memories. Baskets of the forgotten and thrown away. All done up with a hole in the middle, ready to receive new life who will look at such things as the ultimate newness. Such a marvelous thing, bird nests.
These aren’t special birds, the house wrens. They are common little birds that some think of as pests. But I love having them nest on my back porch. They build these nests in every space they think might work. They lay cinnamon toast eggs in surreptitious clutches. I try to be careful not to disturb them. This year, her nest is in my tool cabinet. I was going to move that thing but now will have to wait until her babies are hatched and flying. Flown away to their own little lives.
I’ll try to give you updates on their progress. Cheep. Cheep.