Babes in the woods

The phoebe eggs hatched on Sunday, June 3. It is now Thursday evening, an evening with wild wind and a temperature of 90. The guys are putting a subfloor into the artist's studio, and I have set up a folding chair in the woods. I soon learn that the woods aren't mine for the borrowing (which is the only kind of land so many of us can enjoy in 21st century America). As I get out my camera, I realize that the phoebes have alighted behind me in their favorite woodsy alcove, silently displeased. I move 20 feet away. Not good enough. They perch on dead branches, alternately eyeing both me and a hyperactive chickadee.

I pick up and move nearer to the artist's studio, abandoning the camera and contenting myself with a beer, the binoculars, and Van Morrison blaring from the guys' car CD player. One phoebe has already settled on the nest. It could be either the male or the female, for both will sit on the nest if the female permits it. Whoever it is rides a bit higher now, the babies having grown. Earlier I peeked at them with the mirror: five dark dove grey forms barely covered with light gray fuzz and curled together like sleeping puppies. Tiny orange-rimmed mouths helped me count.

My presence is not the only human-generated disturbance that the phoebes have tolerated. First there was the whole nest-moving episode. And before the female had a chance to lay eggs in her new nest, we took in a bucket truck to take down dead trees.

The phoebes flew to the slough and waited out the chaos there. We tried to be as delicate and unobtrusive as is possible with a huge truck and chain saws. When work commenced on the artist's studio a group of bright-eyed inquisitive little boys (children of one of the guys) were all agog to know what I was observing and how the binoculars worked. The phoebes flitted to the woods as I gave a tour to the boys, who chattered noisily in those stage whispers that children use when they are trying to be polite and quiet.

The wind tonight is a hassle and is ushering in black clouds. The wren's song still bubbles and cascades through the branches overhead. A redstart's ringing cry sounds in the neighboring oak. They don't care that Van is singing, too. Thunder murmurs in the west. The phoebe has chosen her nest site well. The babies are well protected from the strong breeze and hot sun.  She is off the nest now, and through my binoculars I see a tiny head surface above the nest's rim and then sink down again.  Seconds later downy fuzz ripples and settles into the depths of the nest. The babies have rolled over in their sleep.

Suddenly the sky darkens with rain, and I hurry to put all of my optics away.

June 12. I haven't been here since last week. Everyone else is inside chatting, and I take the opportunity to check on the phoebes. The babies now overtop the nest. They sleep the sleep of the just, sound as can be, all fuzz and a couple of beaks lifted skyward. The orange beaks are the only way to distinguish the individual birds. Otherwise, birds and nest merge together in perfect camouflage.

The parents chip, chip, chip worriedly, and I hear the gentle flutter of wings as they rush at the back of my head. I back off and set up the folding chair near the tree where the wrens burble as richly as ever.

The phoebes are not used to me, so it takes them half an hour to return to the nest to feed the nestlings. Or, rather, nestling singular, for only one lifts its head groggily from the collective stupor they are in. In the meantime I have located the nests of two pairs of robins, one aggregate of grackles (it seems that an entire colony is feeding the nestlings in one nest), a pair of wrens, and a pair of purple finches. There are three other nests that I cannot identify. Redstarts, blackbirds, orioles, killdeer, barn swallows, nuthatches, chickadees, vireos, and blue jays all call from different parts of the slough and woods. More birds unfamiliar to me rustle and sing hidden in the underbrush and the leafy tree tops.

Now that the phoebes have adjusted to my presence, it is a regular tag-team effort between the parents as they bring insects to the nest of comatose babies. I have read that often the female will not permit the male to feed the babies, but this pair shares the task easily and equitably.  They hunt from the tree branches near the nest or down by the slough.

The parents must have stuffed the babies well during the day because they do not wake and clamor for food.

With very little effort it is possible to be taken into the more-than-human rhythms of life. Patience, the willingness to move slowly, and the ability to spend some time alone go a long way. I feel lucky that all of the birds so quickly return to their work and allow me to explore quietly the edges of where they live.