It seems just yesterday we saw the first fuzzy head peek above the edge of the phoebe nest in the porch eaves. That first day the poor parents were frantic, making trip after trip with toothsome morsels for the hatchlings. There were two wobbling heads raised on spindly necks that we could see. The normal brood in this nest over the years has been four. Had the untimely late snowy cold killed the rest of the eggs? I swore I could hear three distinct voices in the rhythmic feeble cheeps that heralded the arrival of each snack. Several anxious days later, we sighed with relief when the third head, beak straining upward in entreaty, became visible alongside the others. We had three grand-chicks!
Mr. and Mrs. Phoebe looked weary and frazzled. How they found so many food items in such short forays I can’t imagine. Grubs, insects, and the favorite caterpillars were dropped into straining, strident hatchling maws. Larger morsels were deftly severed in two. Or was the phoebe parent just clever enough to silence two of the three shrill begging voices in one trip? Almost daily, the voices became louder and deeper as the chicks grew and strengthened.
We were so proud. Wasn’t it clever of Mr. Phoebe to choose a nest site eight vertical feet from the ground, sheltered by a roof, upheld by a sturdy rafter, immune to wind, predator, and rain? Wasn’t Mrs. Phoebe smart to realize that our cats, who watched the nest with unswerving gaze, were no threat to her brood? The cats themselves seemed as solicitous as they were fascinated, rattling their warning when squirrels came near the nest, which the phoebes took as a signal to scold or dive upon the intruding rodents.
Sometime during the week past I saw the phoebe couple engaging in aerial acrobatics, something they certainly had no energy for during their previous single-minded, continuous food deliveries from dawn until dusk. Maggi reported that yesterday she’d seen them dancing in flight, Mr. Phoebe singing his squeaky-toy song. And I noticed today, it is now hard to distinguish the chicks from their parents by size. The young ones are still somewhat fuzzy, but the nest is obviously crowded to capacity. When neither parent is around to see, the chicks are fanning their wings, trying out muscles that will soon be used in flight: The sudden, unpredictable explosion of birds from the nest, only the parents (raising their second brood) to return. Of course, when a parent is sighted returning to the nest with food, the chicks hunker down, voices raised in supplication, eyes round with innocence and mouths open for food. But their feed-the-helpless-chick act will not fool anyone much longer.
Where does the time go? Even the parent birds, who surely wished that dusk would come sooner during those first busy feeding days, must sense their young will soon leave them, and feel some regret at that notion. For us, the felines and humans that have watched with the fond non-responsibility of godparents, the empty nest syndrome will be acute. When the sweet peeping of begging chicks is replaced by silence; when no fuzzy, ugly-cute heads crane above the nest edge to look at us; we will feel the loss. How fleeting is childhood! How quickly our young grow up and leave!
This forces us to think of the swiftness of time, and reflect on how we should appreciate each irreplaceable day. There will never be another one just like it.
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