A Blush of Baby Birds - Aug 13 2022

 

A Blush of Baby Birds

Aug 13 2022

The agitated bird

is almost a blur,

darting, veering, swooping

with acrobatic precision.

I duck

as she buzzes my head

in what feels like a near miss.

I find it impressive

how she avoids hitting anything

in these dark cluttered confines.

The robin

who has nested in my garage

and is fiercely protective.

So I've learned to enter carefully

without alarming her,

leave the door ajar.

But it's already August

and no hungry heads have appeared

straining for food,

no chorus of high-pitched calls

seeking attention.

I have seen no fledgling birds

perched on the edge,

stretching their wings

testing the air.

An empty nest, a failed clutch,

yet still she defends,

emboldened

by the maternal hormones

still coursing through her blood;

the instinct

of the tiger mother,

the imperative drive

of reproduction.

So I defer

to this unfortunate bird,

who laid sterile eggs

or lost them to predators.

The garage is hers, until fall,

or she finally relents

and abandons the empty nest.

And if she returns next spring

I wish her every success;

a blush of baby robins

filling my garage

with loud raucous squawking.

Who, under a mother's watchful eye

will take their first tentative flight,

steering awkwardly,

losing altitude,

blundering into walls.

And the one precocious bird,

because there's always one;

the brave adventurer

veering out the open door

into a sunlit world.

As I discovered with crows, there isn't just one collective noun for robins. But blush seems the most accepted, and certainly to my ear the best. And since I'm a sucker for alliteration, a fine opportunity for a cheeky title.