Cooperative Living July 2017 - 42

Rural Living | by Margo Oxendine, Contributing Columnist
Robin family's lively progress
ends in empty-nest syndrome
My Mama Robin was back, in her same nest in the flamingo pink azalea
bush, which abuts my screened porch.
I
know we're in the throes of summer,
but deadlines demand that I write this
on Memorial Day.
I had a most fascinating spring,
watching one of nature's wonders. I've
written about birds before, but here's
this year's experience.
My Mama Robin was back, in her
same nest in the flamingo pink azalea
bush, which abuts my screened porch.
This nest could not be in a better
position: I can sit at my table reading or
eating lunch, with a front-row seat as the
delightful drama and comedy unfolds.
The first week of May, I spotted four
pale blue eggs in the nest. I was thrilled.
They were the first things I gazed at in
the morning and, finally, twilight. Mama
Robin was a very good rooster. I had to
wait until she flitted off for food or a bird
bath in the driveway before I crept close
to the screen. She did not appreciate
being disturbed.
I looked at the eggs early on
Mother's Day morning. That afternoon,
I checked again. And there they were:
Four tiny red breasts, the size of pretzel
nuggets. Hooray!
I became obsessed. It's amazing how
quickly the nuggets developed into the
teensiest, tiniest birdies. Within two days,
they had beaks! Almost overnight, they
sprouted little birdie feet. They spent
their days huddled together in a pile,
sleeping. Hatching out of an egg is
apparently hard work.
Within a week, wispy little feathers
developed.
Mama Robin focused on constant
feeding. She'd fly off, grab a worm from
under the nearby hydrangea bush, zip
back and drop it into one of four gaping
little maws. Then, I witnessed an
astonishing thing: A second adult began
helping out with the feeding! It may have
been an auntie. But I think it was Papa
40 | Cooperative Living | July 2017
Robin, and here's why: He'd zoom in,
toss a bright-green grub into the nest
while Mama roosted, and then zip off
in a big hurry. Perhaps he was afraid
if he stayed any longer, he'd be
changing diapers.
The baby birds matured each day.
They still slept in a pile in the
small nest, but most of the
time, they sat there
with their mouths
opened wide,
waiting for food.
Mama Robin
seemed barely
able to keep
them fed.
Occasionally,
she'd take a rest
on a nearby
branch, keeping
the nest in full view.
Here's something
weird I couldn't
comprehend: Mama Robin
would drop in a worm or bug, and
then, she'd pluck something white from
a baby's maw, and eat it herself. What
the heck was that about?
By Day Eight, the nest was getting
crowded. The babies developed tiny
wings, and then those wings developed
white speckles. Whenever I'd spy on
them - at least a dozen times a day
I'd get real close, looming over the
nest - they'd gaze back at me. Or,
they'd quickly shut their little eyes and
" play possum. "
On Day Eleven, I was sitting on the
porch and suddenly, Mama Robin
started flitting madly from branch to
power line, making a raucous racket.
What, I wondered, was the problem? I
got up to take a closer look. And there it
was: A very fat, long black snake,
undulating near the nest! I shouted,
" No! " I don't know if snakes have ears,
but he paid no attention. I posted myself
at the screen, watching the four babies as
closely as their own mother.
I looked at the eggs
early on Mother's Day
morning. That afternoon, I
checked again. And there they
were: Four tiny red breasts the
size of pretzel nuggets.
Hooray!
What would I do if the snake began
coiling toward the bush? Aha! I would
bombard it with hornet spray!
Thankfully, the crisis was
averted; the snake
continued on his
way, and Mama
Robin returned
to the nest.
On Day
Twelve, I said
good morning
to the little
birdies, who
weren't so little
anymore. When
I checked a bit
later, the biggest
one had flown the
coop. I felt sad. By late
afternoon, the next largest
one was gone.
On Day Thirteen, I said hello to the
two remaining birdies and ate my
sandwich. By the time I finished, they
were both gone. I spotted them in the
bushes, gazing around in wonder. The
nest was empty, save for a parting
gesture: A big glop of bird " doo. "
Later that afternoon, there was a big
commotion in the hydrangea bush. It
was Mama and Papa Robin. I believe
they were up to something that just
might result in four more eggs sometime
soon. I sure hope so. I'm suffering from
empty-nest syndrome. 
Spice up your summer reading with
Margo's " A Party of One, " a
compilation of columns from the past.
Call 540-468-2147 Mon-Thurs, 9-5, or
email: recorder@htcnet.org.
www.co-opliving.com
http://www.co-opliving.com
Cooperative Living July 2017

Table of Contents for the Digital Edition of Cooperative Living July 2017
