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.

Homecomings

I discovered the phoebe's nest last year.  It was under the eaves of the shed and stuffed to overflowing with four babies who stared glassily with large doe eyes.  They were just about to fledge, and the next time I went to the nest it was empty.  No one remembers seeing the phoebes before last year.

The Eastern Phoebe is a small flycatcher with a dark head and back softening in color to a buff belly.  Its tail bobs when it sits on a branch, and its "fee-bee!" call gives it its name.  Like all flycatchers, the phoebe eats insects and is often a lively presence in woodlands and along sloughs and lakes where it will sit patiently and hunt bugs.  I have spent some enjoyable times watching a phoebe poised a foot above a body of water on a branch, only to zip out repeatedly to catch insects and then return to the same perch.

The farm shed on which the phoebe built its nest was once a garage on the old farm.  Later, when the old farm site was leveled to put in a highway interchange, the shed was moved to the present farm and became a place to store the riding mower.  This year both spring and homecomings came early to Minnesota.  A daughter who lives out west returned to visit and, as always happens with this family, the merest wisp of an idea soon turned into a big plan.  One minute people were inside chatting, and the next they were swarming excitedly over the shed and plotting to turn it into a small studio for the daughter to use for her art work.  When they concentrate on a project, it is rather like watching the kids from the Charlie Brown story surrounding the sad little Christmas tree.  Arms wave exuberantly, and the ugly duckling becomes a swan.

I step back, letting the clan imagine the shed as artist's studio.  From this perspective I see two parties appropriating the shed for the future:  the humans inside bustling about and a phoebe outside inspecting last year's nest on the north wall.  Phoebes are often in regular contact with human beings due to their preference for quiet farm outbuildings as nest sites.  This phoebe likes this particular location, and it is easy to see that it satisfies her requirements for a shaded site protected from the elements.  The rim of the nest is only inches from the roofline and thus sheltered from sun, wind, and rain.  Last year's nest is a bit battered, but nothing that a new coat of mud and greenery won't fix.

As I drive back to town I am uneasy for the phoebes. A word to the artist, and she pries the old nest off the shed. We hate to do it, but that wall is slated for major demo.

Very little stops a determined bird. Within days the phoebe has rebuilt the most glorious nest. The female is usually the one who builds the nest (the male waits nearby), and this one is a beauty:  a full eight inches tall, stuck all over with little mosses and lichens, and the cup lined with fine grasses.  Our hearts sink.  We feel like the worst petty thugs as we take down the nest.

The phoebe has not laid eggs yet, but she was clearly ready to lay them.  Is it too late for her to start over?  Have we ruined the pair's chances to raise a brood this year?  Rand has an idea.  Could we convince the phoebes that the old children's playhouse adjacent to the shed is just as good as a nesting site?

First Rand removes from the shed's exterior the hardware that has provided the ledge that phoebes need to support their nests.  He then nails a small piece of wood to the corresponding place on the playhouse.  We wait.

Days later we are elated and relieved.  The phoebe has rebuilt yet again, a more modest nest this time, and soon five small white eggs appear.

She sits on the nest.