After dissuading a pair of robins from nesting next to our patio, I stumbled upon their second attempt at a nest deeper in our small backyard, cunningly camouflaged within the variegated foliage of the Wolf’s Eye Chinese dogwood tree. There, in the crux of the branches, was an intricately-woven marvel of engineering that housed a trio of the tell-tale blue eggs (hence the original nudge away from heavily-trafficked areas such as the patio – had we allowed them to stay there, we would not have been able to walk past without risk of territorial attack).
I was happy to have the nest where it was, since I was the one who oh-so-unceremoniously put a kibosh on their original location (as is my habit this year, it seems). This was much better, and afforded me the opportunity to visit and keep track of their progress. Every day I would walk out to the protective canopy of the Wolf’s Eye dogwood, gently part the branches to reveal the nest, and from a safe distance snap a few photos.
Checking on them as the hot days unfolded, I finally found them in the midst of breaking through the bright blue shells, their tiny pink bodies entering the world, so pure and unprotected. So devastatingly vulnerable. How could such tender and delicate things ever survive this world?
Somehow, they lasted – first one day, then two, and soon they were taking more recognizable form. Fuzzy, downy fur developed into the tiniest feathers. Beaks protruded and elongated. Eyes eventually opened. Life took its course against all odds.
The baby robins grew little by little, becoming more animated and engaging. When awake, they would crane their necks upward, straining to reach whatever figure was in the vicinity – parent or not – so eager were they for sustenance and care.
On the morning of our anniversary, Andy called me outside to a commotion in the Japanese maple across from the dogwood tree. It seemed all the birds of the neighborhood were screaming and squawking, gathering and hopping from branch to branch in excited, agitated, and apparently terrified distress. The robins were most upset, but there was consternation in the cardinals, concern from a catbird, and fear from a pack of finches. The cries sounded like anguish and warning. I thought immediately of the robin’s nest, and cautiously walked in that direction.
Pulling apart the curtain of dogwood branches, I found the nest upended and in disarray. It looked like something had pulled it apart. No baby robins were to be found in the tree, or under it. I assumed there was one where the birds had gathered in such upset but when I approached they began the typical swooping and dive-bombing that meant I was not welcome there.
At that moment the sky was about to open. It had turned dark gray and was just waiting to pounce. I hurried back toward the patio, when I came upon one of the baby robins. Calling to Andy, I asked what we should do. He asked if I could right the nest. I did so, and he scooped the little robin up in his hands and deposited it back in the nest. The birds continued their agitated vigil near the Japanese maple, but the storm had arrived so we had to rush inside. We’d saved one, and who knew if they would return to the nest anyway.
Andy surmised it was an attack from a hawk or possibly a crow – both have been known to raid other nests. The thunder sounded and the rain poured down in a deluge that I hoped would be healing. It passed quickly, and when we looked back outside a cat was prowling the area, licking its lips – the likely offender. It slinked back toward the maple where the birds were once again screeching. I did my best to chase it away. I looked for the other little birds but couldn’t find them.
We watched from back inside the house to see if the robins would return to the baby we had returned to the nest. We didn’t have much hope. But when the rain subsided and light came back into the sky, we saw an adult with a worm in its mouth fly over to a branch near the dogwood, and then, in a wonderful moment of relief and hope, it returned to the nest and fed the last remaining baby. Together, Andy and I had saved one little bird from the cruel attack of life. It was all we could do and, on that morning, it was enough.
