For the past thirteen days, we’ve had a robin on the nest she built on a beam under the eaves by our porch door. The beam supports the wisteria over the patio and also a very laden New Dawn rose. It’s a perfect place for a nest — shady and protected. Every time we use the front door — we’ve given up using the porch for the duration… — the robin flies away; we hear her and/or her mate scolding us from the big firs nearby. Mostly we’re trying to use doors on the other side of the house but there’s watering to do on the patio and sometimes we just have to take our chances that she’ll fly off and then return. Once, in exasperation as I carefully opened the front door to water the geraniums there only to see the robin glide away as though I’d deliberately chased her off, I told her to “Man up.” So far, she hasn’t. Last week, during one of her brief absences, John was able to peek into the nest to determine that there were three eggs inside, as blue as, well, robin eggs.
Today I had the feeling that things had changed. When I was out at the vegetable garden, I could see the robin standing on the edge of the nest, peering in. I suspected that the eggs had hatched, or were hatching. The timing is right. When she flew off when I returned to the house, I quickly got the camera and held it up and over the nest, then clicked. This is what I saw. (Blurry…)
I hope the other one hatches too. It seems miraculous, in the same way that summer’s tomatoes have their origins in the small seeds we press into earth in March or this morning’s poppy began as a black speck the size of a grain of salt.
Or that my own beautiful children, now grown and fledged, began here, in this place, before the wide sky opened to them.