The Empty Nest
It was to have been a day of celebration. Over the past month, the male and female bluebirds in our meadow had successfully fed and cared for their three chicks. They had weathered violent rain storms, cold as well as hot humid weather. And now the day had arrived for the chicks to try their wings and join their parents outside the nest. Instead, as the three fledglings stepped out of their nest box and began to test their wings, two red wing hawks swooped down and grabbed two of them. The third was able to return to the nest box, but its newly feathered body was so badly eviscerated, it soon died in the nest box.
For two days, the female has been sitting on a nearby nest box, her head and body pointed towards her now empty nest box, as if willing her three to emerge just by her concentrated presence. Now and then, the male who would now have been in charge of feeding his fledged youngsters makes a flash appearance in the vicinity of the nest box and then disappears. The empty nest box stands erect and silent. What should have been a joyful explosion of blue in the meadow over the past couple of days is now a hushed quiet, broken only by an occasional eastern phoebe landing on one of the nesting boxes with an insect caught in its beak or a butterfly flitting over the purple thyme and flowers of the meadow.
I had followed the activity of the blue birds from the day I noticed the female darting in and out of one of the nest boxes in the meadow. I began monitoring the nest box, noting the date the female had laid her three blue eggs, joyful when the chicks hatched, and checking on the progress of the three chicks every couple of days. As the date for the youngsters to fledge approached, I no longer opened the nest box. Instead I watched expectantly through my birding telescope, taking my cues from the parents who were taking turns feeding their growing offspring.
The day the birds were to leave their nest was beautiful, sunny and dry. Two friends had driven from Boston to visit for a couple of days. We were having lunch outside on the wrap-around porch when I heard the screech of a hawk. Two hawks had begun to appear over the meadow about two weeks ago. Worried by their recent interest, I had tried to discourage them by running out into the meadow clapping my hands. This cry aroused me from my chair. Muttering some words of apology to my friends, I ran through the house and out of the back door towards the meadow. Overhead were the two hawks. One had just swooped down around the nest box. I ran into the meadow clapping my hands and waving my blue napkin which, in my haste, I had forgotten to leave at the table. One of the hawks cried out again and slowly circled over the nest box. Neither bird seemed in a hurry to leave. I persisted with my clapping and arm waving. Finally, the two hawks slowly flew away from the meadow towards the woods. I did not go near the nest box fearing I would disrupt the young blue birds within.
Distracted by my visitors, the incident slipped from my mind. It was only the next morning that I became suspicious that something was amiss. Looking through the birding telescope, I observed that neither male nor female blue bird was approaching the nest box. They perched instead on nearby boxes. There was also no sign of any other activity from the nest.
That afternoon, no longer able to hold back, I strode over to the nest box, tapped on the side panel to check if there was any movement within. Discerning none, I slowly opened the nest box and peered in. I was greeted first by the smell of decay and then by the sight of a blue feathered body lying dead in its nest, alone. Its little body mutilated. I gently lifted the little bird and held its still, soft, weightlessness in the palm of my hand. I now understood what I had witnessed the day before when I had chased the two hawks from the meadow. Gazing at the lifeless bird in my hand, I felt responsible somehow for its death and the death of its siblings. Having followed their development and anticipated their emergence from their nest, I had become more than an objective bystander. I had monitored their nest because I wanted to ensure their safety and yet at their hour of triumph, nature trumped my efforts. Rationally, I know there was nothing to be done: the red-tail hawks were participants in a natural cycle of life and death. And yet I found myself whispering words of apology as I watched the female perched on a nearby nest box staring at her silent nest: "So sorry."
It was to have been a day of celebration. Over the past month, the male and female bluebirds in our meadow had successfully fed and cared for their three chicks. They had weathered violent rain storms, cold as well as hot humid weather. And now the day had arrived for the chicks to try their wings and join their parents outside the nest. Instead, as the three fledglings stepped out of their nest box and began to test their wings, two red wing hawks swooped down and grabbed two of them. The third was able to return to the nest box, but its newly feathered body was so badly eviscerated, it soon died in the nest box.
For two days, the female has been sitting on a nearby nest box, her head and body pointed towards her now empty nest box, as if willing her three to emerge just by her concentrated presence. Now and then, the male who would now have been in charge of feeding his fledged youngsters makes a flash appearance in the vicinity of the nest box and then disappears. The empty nest box stands erect and silent. What should have been a joyful explosion of blue in the meadow over the past couple of days is now a hushed quiet, broken only by an occasional eastern phoebe landing on one of the nesting boxes with an insect caught in its beak or a butterfly flitting over the purple thyme and flowers of the meadow.
I had followed the activity of the blue birds from the day I noticed the female darting in and out of one of the nest boxes in the meadow. I began monitoring the nest box, noting the date the female had laid her three blue eggs, joyful when the chicks hatched, and checking on the progress of the three chicks every couple of days. As the date for the youngsters to fledge approached, I no longer opened the nest box. Instead I watched expectantly through my birding telescope, taking my cues from the parents who were taking turns feeding their growing offspring.
The day the birds were to leave their nest was beautiful, sunny and dry. Two friends had driven from Boston to visit for a couple of days. We were having lunch outside on the wrap-around porch when I heard the screech of a hawk. Two hawks had begun to appear over the meadow about two weeks ago. Worried by their recent interest, I had tried to discourage them by running out into the meadow clapping my hands. This cry aroused me from my chair. Muttering some words of apology to my friends, I ran through the house and out of the back door towards the meadow. Overhead were the two hawks. One had just swooped down around the nest box. I ran into the meadow clapping my hands and waving my blue napkin which, in my haste, I had forgotten to leave at the table. One of the hawks cried out again and slowly circled over the nest box. Neither bird seemed in a hurry to leave. I persisted with my clapping and arm waving. Finally, the two hawks slowly flew away from the meadow towards the woods. I did not go near the nest box fearing I would disrupt the young blue birds within.
Distracted by my visitors, the incident slipped from my mind. It was only the next morning that I became suspicious that something was amiss. Looking through the birding telescope, I observed that neither male nor female blue bird was approaching the nest box. They perched instead on nearby boxes. There was also no sign of any other activity from the nest.
That afternoon, no longer able to hold back, I strode over to the nest box, tapped on the side panel to check if there was any movement within. Discerning none, I slowly opened the nest box and peered in. I was greeted first by the smell of decay and then by the sight of a blue feathered body lying dead in its nest, alone. Its little body mutilated. I gently lifted the little bird and held its still, soft, weightlessness in the palm of my hand. I now understood what I had witnessed the day before when I had chased the two hawks from the meadow. Gazing at the lifeless bird in my hand, I felt responsible somehow for its death and the death of its siblings. Having followed their development and anticipated their emergence from their nest, I had become more than an objective bystander. I had monitored their nest because I wanted to ensure their safety and yet at their hour of triumph, nature trumped my efforts. Rationally, I know there was nothing to be done: the red-tail hawks were participants in a natural cycle of life and death. And yet I found myself whispering words of apology as I watched the female perched on a nearby nest box staring at her silent nest: "So sorry."
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