“The last one to leave the nest,” took on a whole new meaning this morning as we watched a nest of robins on the white pine tree below our window. From our perfect vantage point we could see the eggs, then the scrawny featherless forms and then an increasingly crowded nest. We missed the leaving of the other siblings, but have watched far too long for the last one to jump. He sits perched on the edge of the nest and occasionally stretches his legs and ruffles his feathers as if thinking about it.
His parents are hopping and clucking on the ground below and occasionally one comes to the nest with a quick worm snack. Now one perches above him and the other flutters by as if to say, “It’s easy, just go ahead and try.” But he is “chicken” or “robin,” and can’t give up his grasp on the edge.
We have waited so long with camera in hand. The best view comes with the window open but after the overnight frost, it is soon too cold. We watch until the work of the day calls. But by then I’m hooked and take my laptop to the kitchen table and begin to write. For some perverse reason I want to say that I was there when he finally flew away, noting the hour and where he spent his first moments on land. When I was young I thought birds lived in nests, but no, when they leave the nesting place there is no turning back. The little ones will have to find their own food, foraging for worms and insects.
Within a week, two granddaughters found baby birds struggling on the ground—too early falling or being pushed from the nest. They both wanted to rescue the birds, finding earthy food for them and moving them without touching to a safer place. We know and I think they do too that the birds will not survive but they do what they can to make their parting comfortable.
My thoughts go to last children when they leave the proverbial nest. Mine did not seem particularly reluctant to leave—she longed for a different scene than the one we had imported her into. But over the years, both of us hover around the nest from time to time when one of us needs the other for the comfort of home. My parents raised my siblings and me to fly from the nest and I was like that mother robin cheering and trying to convince my own kids that they could fly.
We have waited so long with camera in hand. The best view comes with the window open but after the overnight frost, it is soon too cold. We watch until the work of the day calls. But by then I’m hooked and take my laptop to the kitchen table and begin to write. For some perverse reason I want to say that I was there when he finally flew away, noting the hour and where he spent his first moments on land. When I was young I thought birds lived in nests, but no, when they leave the nesting place there is no turning back. The little ones will have to find their own food, foraging for worms and insects.
Within a week, two granddaughters found baby birds struggling on the ground—too early falling or being pushed from the nest. They both wanted to rescue the birds, finding earthy food for them and moving them without touching to a safer place. We know and I think they do too that the birds will not survive but they do what they can to make their parting comfortable.
My thoughts go to last children when they leave the proverbial nest. Mine did not seem particularly reluctant to leave—she longed for a different scene than the one we had imported her into. But over the years, both of us hover around the nest from time to time when one of us needs the other for the comfort of home. My parents raised my siblings and me to fly from the nest and I was like that mother robin cheering and trying to convince my own kids that they could fly.
In the next few years, our last-born child will be sending her children out to test their wings. Yesterday they watched her walk across the stage to receive her fine arts degree, while the picture of one of her oil paintings flashed on the big screen behind her. She remembers all the times she hesitated, wondering if it was all worth it. All the sleepless nights with a paint brush in hand. But her children will carry the picture of her success with them as they search for food for their own souls.
Little bird, you don’t have to be in hurry even though I’m watching and waiting. There is plenty of time to make your move. I know you are scared—we all were once there on the brink. But if you are able, fly away, carrying the comfort of home within you until you raise your own young next spring. Perhaps you’ll come back to this white pine so we can watch as you cheer your own children to take flight.
Little bird, you don’t have to be in hurry even though I’m watching and waiting. There is plenty of time to make your move. I know you are scared—we all were once there on the brink. But if you are able, fly away, carrying the comfort of home within you until you raise your own young next spring. Perhaps you’ll come back to this white pine so we can watch as you cheer your own children to take flight.
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