Reflections on the Second Week of Summer – Watching for Baby Birds 

    Our rural Pennsylvania log house, with eleven inch beam extensions under two foot overhangs, attracts nesting birds. Five pairs chose our house for their nests this year–phoebes above the guest room, wrens above the bedroom, mourning doves above the the deck/porch corner, and robins above each side of the porch steps.

    With people tramping up and down the steps at all hours, I wouldn’t have built a nest there. But robins take brooding breaks, and break they did. They squawked and zoomed off the nest whenever anyone passed.

    Other than the necessary leaving from or returning to the house, I tried not to disturb the birds. I didn’t want the guilt of startling them. A startled bird could accidentally knock an egg out of the nest. Worse, the bird might abandon its unhatched eggs leaving them vulnerable to predators.

    Besides, I wanted a picture of the baby birds.

    Rather than look at and photograph the nests frequently, I’d listen for the chicks to cheep–my trusted method of hatchling detection since June 7, 2002, five years before we built our log house.

    That day, downy woodpecker chicks, in a hole near the top of a ten foot snag (dead tree), cheeped so loudly and constantly that I was surprised they didn’t get laryngitis. Their parents flitted from snag to snag gathering insects for the never satisfied, raucous chicks. Rubbing my forehead to ease the headache their noise incited, my appreciation of the hustling, beyond-gold-metal-dedicated parents quadrupled.

    The last two springs, robin chicks cheeped in their nests by the house, not as loud as downy chicks, but they still raised a hard-to-miss ruckus.

    So, I listened for baby birds to cheep.

    The birds kept quiet, and I kept quiet.

    Well mostly.

    Two weeks ago, a downy woodpecker tap, tap, tapped on the front of the log house. I banged on the loft wall.

    Silence.

    Tap, tap, tap sounded under the gutters above the great room. I yelled, “Go away.”

    Silence.

    Tap, tap, tap sounded under the eaves by the guest room. I walked outside and the woodpecker flew away.

    Silence.

    Tap, tap, tap sounded on the kitchen wall.

    Sheesh! We live in the woods. Why couldn’t the woodpecker tap on one of the trees? I slammed the front door five times in quick succession. Hard.

    Silence.

    Absolute silence.

    Oops.

    I’d driven the woodpecker away, but had I chased the robins and mourning doves away too? I tiptoed outside, leaned over the porch railing, and looked up to the left. Two beady black eyes of a brooding mourning dove stared back at me. I glanced to the right. The robin’s head stuck above the nest.

    “Sorry,” I whispered and resolved to scare the woodpecker by walking around the house and staring at the hammering bird.

    I didn’t need the walk-stare tactic.

    The next tap, tap, tap echoed off our detached garage. The woodpecker moved on its own for more carpenter bees and fewer pesky humans.

    This past Tuesday morning, I still hadn’t heard any babies cheep, but a fledgling wren hopped past the sliding glass deck door. Our cat Emma’s ears and tail twitched. A chipmunk ran straight up the ramp, veered left, and chased the fledgling between the pansy pots. With wings closed, the bird jumped off the deck.

    Wasn’t it about time for the mourning doves and robins to hatch? When had the parents started incubating their eggs? I hadn’t heard baby bird cheeping on the porch or seen frenzied parents fly to and from the nest, so I kept listening.

    Tuesday afternoon, a mourning dove, half the size of an adult, made a zig-zag flight toward the glass door.

    Inside, George, our other cat, crouched and crept to the door.

    The mourning dove wavered off, circled around, and made a second wobbly approach.

    George jumped against the glass.

    The baby zig-zagged away.

    Could that bird have hatched from the deck/porch nest? Probably not. I hadn’t heard any cheeps. Nevertheless, I tiptoed outside, leaned over the railing, and looked up to the mourning dove nest.

    Half a brooding mourning dove showed above the brim of the nest. It calmly glanced back at me. Just a peaceful parent. I fetched my camera and took a photo.

    That evening, when I processed the photo, the top left edge of the nest had a black spot. Did the bird soften the nest with old feathers? I enlarged the photo. The black sharpened into a small wing.

    That couldn’t be a baby. I hadn’t heard any cheeping.

    Overnight the temperature fell to 48º F (9º C). Instead of dressing for outdoor yoga, I pulled on my fuzzy red slippers and bathrobe to check on the birds. No need to tiptoe in the slippers. I leaned over the railing and looked up. Four black eyes looked back at me. A baby bird nestled under the parent. Both faced forward. What a photo!

    I fetched my camera.

    When I returned, the birds had turned sideways giving me a great profile of the parent and a baby’s wing. I took the photo anyway then turned to check the robin. It sat low in the nest with only its head and shoulders showing–no extra wings, no little heads.

    I tried to leave the birds gawker-free, but when I had to shake dust out of throw rugs, I’d leaned over the railing anyway so I looked. The baby mourning dove had grown. The robin nest stayed silent and empty.

    Then Friday morning, after a long rainy night, I streamed Energizing Morning Yoga with Adriene on the porch. While I held a runner’s lunge, mourning dove wings fluttered with a whistling twitter. Peaceful cooing followed in the old pine stand. I leaned over the railing and looked at the mourning dove nest. The parent had left two baby mourning doves in sole possession–photo ready.

    Before fetching the camera, I looked to the silent robin nest. The parent flew in with a bug in its beak. In-out, in-out, in-out, in-out.

    Had the parent birds taught the babies to stay quiet so that the carrying-camera danger couldn’t detect them?

    I wish the parent birds could teach me their technique so that I could train Emma not to paw at me and raise her merrowing-ruckus when I talk on the phone.