By Olivia Emery
Carbondale
A few years ago, a robin built a nest on our back porch. She was as scattered and ditsy as I felt at the time — starting with a few sticks, changing her mind, tossing them on the ground, starting again. In the end she chose a spot two columns away from where she had started, on top of a beam that supported the roof framing. It was brilliantly concealed and her construction was a work of art –– smooth, solid, even, swelling like the capital of a Doric column. Generations of chicks were hatched in that nest.
Last year — was it that same robin or another? Was it the female or both parents? Whatever, they decided to build a new nest right next to the classically perfect one, but the new one was hastily built and much sloppier. Twigs protruded at abrupt angles and long curls of grass hung down in abandon. The whole thing looked as if a modest gust could blow it apart. Part of it trailed over the inside of the beam but the mud and worm casting reinforcement is evidently enough to keep it in place, for it was occupied again this year.
I went away for 10 days, leaving the mother robin dedicated to her nest. When I came back, a mess of poop and detritus on the porch floor told me the chicks had hatched. Dark little heads bobbed up erratically above the rim of the nest, anticipating the next delivery of worm or bug.
We thought there were three chicks, but in a couple of days, a fourth emerged. It was definitely smaller and fighting for beak space, but there were now surely four in the roost. They grew with astonishing speed, maybe as much as ten
percent a day.
How could they still fit and not fall out of the nest? Something had to give. But no: They had an ADU! One of the chicks moved right next door into the beautiful clean nest that was sitting there empty. I think it was the little one.
A day later, I was weeding under an apple tree nearby. I looked up and not three feet away was a tiny chick with a spotted front, no hint of orange yet in his breast. He watched me from his leafy perch.
I watched him.
Three other big chicks watched from the porch nest. They were nearly fully clad in the regulation orange jersey, with just a few spots signifying their youth, but none had dared fledge yet.
Was the little one kicked out? Not fed? I like to think he was braver than the others. And smarter. He did solve his housing dilemma after all and perhaps he’s the one in the cherry trees feasting on prematurely ripening fruit.
I’m sure we’d have found a clutch of feathers nearby if he hadn’t gone to the second nest, just long enough to get the courage to fly.