They arrived, naked and vulnerable, sometime between Saturday mid-day and evening.
Three baby robbins tucked into the nest woven into the wreath at our front door.
Mama and Papa attentively sit and/or feed their tiny fledglings, protecting them from the elements and marauding magpies.
I watch through the slightly open slats of the kitchen window, measuring the babies’ progress by the lengthening moments of time the mama spends away from the nest. When I see her leave, I race to the front door, slowly, carefully opening it to grab a photo. Sometimes, I’m not quick enough and the mama catches me mid-action. She squawks and flaps her wings, changing direction mid-flight as I hastily retreat and slowly, carefully close the front door. Within moments she returns.
I can almost feel her breath of relief. Her babies are safe. I didn’t disturb them.
Yesterday, their third day in this world outside the protection of their egg, I took a photo. Their feathers are starting to appear. Their beaks to become more defined. They are starting to untangle from one another.
It is mystery, magic, miracle at our front door.
She has chosen her nesting spot well. Tucked into the portico of our front porch, the winds do not disturb her, the rain does not intrude, and the magpies… they have to dive and tuck to access the nest. Before they can do that, mama and papa are on scene, and the crazy woman, aka me, on the other side of the glass has time to race to the window, hollering and flapping her arms to chase the magpie away.
The storm has abated, somewhat, though the winds still howl and rain falls, not as heavily and consistently. The river is higher today, the highest we’ve seen it since moving into this home 4 years ago. It’s still a long way from our back fence and the storm is predicted to pass today with the water cresting later this afternoon.
I am grateful.
On our front door three baby robbins grow stronger every day.
On the pedestrian bridge I look at from where I sit at my desk typing, workers have gathered again to continue resurfacing the bridge deck. They’re doing their yoga this morning. Their morning ritual.
It pleases me to see them stretching and bending before beginning their work.
They were absent yesterday. It wasn’t safe to crawl over and under the bridge deck. I’m not sure I’d want to do it today but there they are, clad in rain gear, readying themselves for the day’s labour.
High above, the sky is lighter, less angry and swollen with pregnant clouds desperately trying to rid themselves of nature’s wet bounty.
The trees still dance in the wind. A small, leaf-burdened twig is ripped from a limb and strikes the deck.
I am here, calls out Mother Nature.
I see you, I reply.
We are one.
How it all began