April 14
11:00 a.m.
Jasmine and I are weeding around the bases of the trees in the marsh, in preparation for weed whacking later in the week. It’s mostly hemlock, much of which has grown taller than my head, tangled in the branches of the willows. Fortunately the ground is soft, and the plants come out of the ground “like butter,” in Jasmine’s words – it’s a rare luxury to weed without shovels for once. I am on my hands and knees, pulling the stalks out of the soft ground. They are the color of the rhubarb I grew in my garden in Portland – mostly green, but dappled all over with red, like they’ve been misted with spray-paint from a distance. (That’s the easiest way to tell young hemlock stalks from the native potentilla that it grows amongst – the stems of that plant have no red.)
I am in my own little world under this tree, happily weeding away, until I tear away a weed and find myself gazing down into a nest, barely bigger than my fist, holding four tiny eggs. It is stoutly constructed, lightly lined with cow hair from the neighboring dairy pasture, and carefully situated in the crook of a low-hanging branch, so that even on my hands and knees I am looking down into it. The eggs are each about the size of the end digit of my thumb, a light blue-grey speckled with brown.
My first reaction is relief, followed closely by self-reproach: why had I not been more careful? I could have knocked the nest over and destroyed those four precious eggs. Resolve to be more careful in the future is again replaced quickly by concern: where is the mother bird? Did I frighten her away? How long has she been gone, and will she return? I worry about the eggs, but there is nothing I can do for them at the moment, so I leave them as they are in the hopes that momma bird will come back.
11:30 a.m.
“Lacey, come over here!” Jasmine calls to me. “I’ve found a nest, and there are baby birds in it!”
It is a second nest, with two baby birds in it, not more than a few days old. They are delicate, fragile, with almost translucent orange-pink skin. Tufts of the most wonderful wispy grey feathers grow long and willy-nilly all over, reminiscent of Einstein, and sleeker black quills are just beginning to show on their tiny wings. They raise their beaks in a silent call for food, familiarity, and protection; it is a blustery day, and in pulling the surrounding hemlock we have removed what must have been an effective windbreak for the little nest. We do our best to nudge the nest more securely into position and to support the wildly bouncing branch with piles of weeds, but the nest looks about to slip from its precarious perch and we are hesitant to move it far lest the mother bird detect our interference and reject it.
2:30 p.m.
Returning to the marsh from lunch and various work-related errands, I check in on the first nest, to reassure myself that the eggs were still there, if nothing else. As I near the nest I sense that something is different, and sure enough, when I reach it I find inside not the four eggs that I had left in the morning, but only three. Three eggs and one tiny, wobbling, absolutely adorable baby chick, its wild wispy feathers already dried and vibrating electrically in the wind. Its eyes are still closed, dark grey domes of blindness far too large for the tiny head, instinctively seeking sunlight. It takes all the chick’s effort to raise its head and cry silently for its mother; the effort is exhausting, and the head flops back down onto the nearest unhatched egg. The chick is so precious and fragile, I wonder how it can ever survive. I wonder if the other eggs will hatch as well, and hope more fervently than ever that momma bird returns.
4:00 p.m.
On our way out for the day, Jasmine and I stop by the first nest one more time, to marvel at the baby chick. As we gaze down at it, it flops around a bit, and for a moment we can’t tell if its movement is jostling the other eggs or if the other eggs are beginning to move on their own. Jasmine is in favor of the first theory, but I am sure that I can see one of the eggs starting to rock independently. Sure enough, as we watch, the egg rocks back and forth a few times and a crack begins to appear on its surface. It widens as the tiny creature inside uses all its strength to push apart the halves of its confinement. It pauses for a rest, and the older chick begins to move toward it, crawling over the other eggs, coming to rest with its beak just at the inception point of the crack, as if to say hello, I’m here waiting for you, you can do it! After a few moments the crack begins to widen again, and we see an elbow, the tiny nubbin of a wing, thrust itself out into the air, and we can almost see its head, struggling to work its way out of the end. At this point we begin to hear frantic tweeting from the branches above us, so we crawl out from beneath the tree, reluctant and relieved at the same time, hoping that it is momma bird returning to care for her newborn chicks.
April 15, 8:45 a.m.
We’re not working in the marsh today, but I go there anyway before work, to check on the birds. As I approach the first nest I see a tuft of brown filling it up, and feel a wave of gratitude sweep over me. Momma bird is back, and that must mean that at least one of the babies must be alive. I don’t go any nearer because I don’t want to frighten her away.
The second nest holds a different story, a sorrowful story. Momma bird did not return to this nest, and the babies were not strong enough to withstand the cold and windy night. I find them pressed against each other haphazardly, their wings entangled, their tiny claws reminding me suddenly of human babies’ toenails, still young and soft and vulnerable. I gaze at them for a while, letting myself be a little sad, but also reminding myself that this is the risk of living in the wild. In an unexpected way, I feel privileged to have witnessed these events, both birth and death, within 20 hours and 20 meters of each other. It grounds me somehow, and humbles me.
3:30 p.m.
I return with a shovel to bury the nest with the two dead chicks. Checking in on the other nest I find that momma bird has flown off in search of food for the four beautiful healthy chicks that now occupy her nest. Wonder and gratitude fill my heart, just knowing that they have lived through one more day.
