A Home of Sticks

She sits on her little nest of sticks and feathers and this and that. It’s sort of a hodge podge of building materials, but it suits her and it’s home to those tiny blue eggs she warms patiently, day and night.

Robins’ nests aren’t known as architectural wonders. And, although they do their best, mama robins sometimes suffer disasters of babies falling from those contraptions. But, this time, this mother robin did well. She chose the brick ledge outside my bathroom window. I don’t see how any marauding cat or squirrel could manage to reach it–not unless he climbed the vertical side of the house. It’s under the eaves, so it is sheltered from the wind and most of the rain. 

She is very patient, this little bird. She flies out in search of worms (and with all this rain, she should have a bountiful supply) then back she comes, settling over the eggs and waiting. And, waiting.

It shouldn’t be long now that I will see scraggly little wobbly heads poking up from their warm beds. Mouths open, they’ll eagerly gobble the food their mother brings. They’ll grow quickly and, one day soon, they’ll be fully feathered and fly away. I hope. I hope no disaster befalls them and, believe me, there are lots of pitfalls for young, thoughtless and mostly defenseless birds. And, what will their mother do? Why, back to the old home, another batch of eggs and the long days of sitting and waiting. That’s the way of continuing the species. That’s the way of the robins.