It's as effective as an alarm clock: early every morning I am awakened by a cacophony of bird song right outside my bedroom window. High-pitched and shrill, and way too happy for the hour, the birds are already in full working mode, darting back and forth all the while chirping at each other with earnestness and purpose.
They're back. Late April every year dozens of common house finches take over the back yard, and every year a nesting pair sets up household on the patio. I'm convinced it's the same pair because after several days of exploring all the nooks and crannies, they inevitably return to their favorite spot -- the top ledge of the outdoor speakers in the corner.
I've been watching for the past week as they built their nest with small twigs and a wad of fluff for cushioning. At the kitchen window I keep my binoculars at the ready and follow the busyness throughout the day. Building the nest has been a two-bird job, both male and female adding small sticks and tucking them one by one into the framework. But the nest is now complete, and their shared construction job has given way to new roles. The female has taken over the nest, while the male visits often, staying just long enough to evaluate the situation then dart off again to do who knows what.
The female spends a great deal of time chirping out towards the yard seemingly to no one in particular, although when I listen carefully I can detect her mate's response. What is she saying? Is she going over the shopping list for her guy? Calling for room service?
Other times, she sits quietly without moving a feather for long periods of time. Is she contemplating motherhood?
My own activity in the kitchen annoys her. When I do dishes in the sink or open the window, she sits up higher in the nest, readying herself for flight. But it's when I open the patio door that she reaches her limit of patience, flying off and leaving the nest unprotected (although I'm sure she's watching my every move from a nearby tree). I wish she understood that I'm not a predator. As soon as the eggs are laid, both parents will have to fend off blue jays looking for easy pickings. I always dread finding a small crushed egg on the patio, knowing that a jay has finally scored a tasty meal.
By mid-May, a new set of voices will be added to the mix as the chicks hatch and start their endless demand for food. Both mother and father will spend every daylight hour foraging for their youngsters.
And then, almost as quickly as it all started, it will be over. The chicks will fledge and abandon the nest along with their parents. The patio will get quiet again, and I will be able to re-claim my lounge chair where I can read the newspaper in peace without disturbing my little avian family. But I will miss the cacophony -- even at the crack of dawn -- and the dedicated purpose with which nature's creatures live their lives.
They're back. Late April every year dozens of common house finches take over the back yard, and every year a nesting pair sets up household on the patio. I'm convinced it's the same pair because after several days of exploring all the nooks and crannies, they inevitably return to their favorite spot -- the top ledge of the outdoor speakers in the corner.
I've been watching for the past week as they built their nest with small twigs and a wad of fluff for cushioning. At the kitchen window I keep my binoculars at the ready and follow the busyness throughout the day. Building the nest has been a two-bird job, both male and female adding small sticks and tucking them one by one into the framework. But the nest is now complete, and their shared construction job has given way to new roles. The female has taken over the nest, while the male visits often, staying just long enough to evaluate the situation then dart off again to do who knows what.
The female spends a great deal of time chirping out towards the yard seemingly to no one in particular, although when I listen carefully I can detect her mate's response. What is she saying? Is she going over the shopping list for her guy? Calling for room service?
Other times, she sits quietly without moving a feather for long periods of time. Is she contemplating motherhood?
My own activity in the kitchen annoys her. When I do dishes in the sink or open the window, she sits up higher in the nest, readying herself for flight. But it's when I open the patio door that she reaches her limit of patience, flying off and leaving the nest unprotected (although I'm sure she's watching my every move from a nearby tree). I wish she understood that I'm not a predator. As soon as the eggs are laid, both parents will have to fend off blue jays looking for easy pickings. I always dread finding a small crushed egg on the patio, knowing that a jay has finally scored a tasty meal.
By mid-May, a new set of voices will be added to the mix as the chicks hatch and start their endless demand for food. Both mother and father will spend every daylight hour foraging for their youngsters.
And then, almost as quickly as it all started, it will be over. The chicks will fledge and abandon the nest along with their parents. The patio will get quiet again, and I will be able to re-claim my lounge chair where I can read the newspaper in peace without disturbing my little avian family. But I will miss the cacophony -- even at the crack of dawn -- and the dedicated purpose with which nature's creatures live their lives.
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