“March winds will blow, and we shall have snow,
And what will cock robin do then, poor thing?
He’ll sit in the barn and keep himself warm,
And hide his head under his wing, poor thing.” (English folk poem)
A week ago, I came across a mob of robins perched in the bare branches of a tree. “Are you guys out of your minds? Don’t you pay attention to Punxsutawney Phil?” It seems they had not just stopped for a coffee break on their way south but were already scouting for nesting sites. Along with blooming snow drops, emerging daffodils, and increasing daylight (second by second) their presence is alleviating the winter blahs. During my walks I am hearing the calls of returning birds; a most pleasant sound that at least for the moment, means all is right in this section of the world.
During the winter a bad storm blasted our numerous pear trees, a favorite robin nesting choice. Those trees are slowing being replaced. Robins will have to find substitutes. Behind my house are huge pines and I am hoping they will suffice. Last summer robins happily perused the pinecones for whatever insect or worm ventured too close. Despite cocking their heads, robins locate prey by sight, not sound. They also like berries and, if consuming too many honeysuckle berries, will get a buzz. If anyone sees a drunk robin, immediately contact Gary Huffenberger who needs challenges in his retirement.
Once the males have fought to discourage interlopers, the female robins arrive, and both get down to business. Nests are a culmination of grass, twigs, debris worked into a strong mud foundation and lined with fine grass and plant fibers. A couple will normally raise three broods a year. Only half of those will survive their first year. Three to six years is the average life expectancy.
Like most children, I would rescue a downed chick; bring it home to nest in a cotton ball lined box placed on the top of the coal furnace; trying to feed it via tweezer or dropper, a mishmash diet of what my 8-year-old-brain thought acceptable. My mother never offered suggestions; annoyed that once more the basement smelled of bird poop. They always died, necessitating a mournful outdoor service complete with whatever doxology I had absorbed, not yet being confirmed.
Having started with a poem, I am ending the same, along with an explanation. I line dry clothes, using the dryer only to de-wrinkle thus avoiding ironing. This has been problematic in some environments; residents complaining my yard resembled section 8 housing. This house is surrounded by pine trees in the back and large bushes on the side. My underwear goes unnoticed. The poem:
I like birds.
Black-capped Chickadees walking backwards up a tree.
Doves cooing softly in the dawn.
Teams of blackbirds gleaning lawns.
Swallows swooping down from high, catching dinner on the fly.
Hummingbirds with pinwheel wings
Mockingbirds whose voices ring.
Finches, Jays, the unctuous Crow, always cawing in the know.
Robins, Sparrows, Finches, Wrens
Each a welcomed special friend
Until washday every week,
When a @%$# bird poops on the sheets.
