The rain thunders in fits and starts, and the sky has that green hue foretelling tornadoes.
About a week ago, I waited at the car-side for Shoshen; we were headed to my favorite running spot — the rail trail, about five miles away. A rustle caught my eye-corner and I turned.
A gray puff of feathers shivered on the ground. Shoshen’s eye caught the nest, where I couldn’t: above the garage light, built over the bulb.
He grabbed the ladder, repaired the nest with cardboard and plopped the nestling back inside. The unaltered nest, which already held the bird’s two siblings, had been two small.
Its parents chittered in alarm and unfurled their gray wings, hovering near his head. Eastern Phoebe: small, a plain gray.
Since then, we’ve kept a peripheral eye out. The birdshit on the pavement seems a healthy sign, but they’ve kept quiet. And I wonder how they view the scenario: the gigantic predators adding cardboard to the nest and returning the baby. Akin to human visions of alien invasions, I think, sans the infamous probe.
We meant only kindness, and I’m not sure that translates well cross-species. It would have been just as correct — even moreso, according to some — to let the nestling meet its inevitable end among cats and foxes, who also have bellies to fill. We couldn’t, though. It didn’t seem the humane thing to do.
I do hope that the birds grow up, eat plenty of insects — and decide that next year, they’ll opt for a tree rather than the garage light. As a housing choice, it has to be a bit stressful.