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.