eat worms and thrive

On rare mornings, I wake to the crows of a wandering rooster; once a week it’s the reverberating scrapes of trash bins dragged along gravel driveways. On most mornings, the gradually changing light through my window is enough to rouse me back to consciousness. Lately, however, my daily alarm has been provided courtesy of the tiny squeaks and peeps of a famished trio.

For many years now, we’ve hosted a family of robins in the rafters of our covered back deck. Because these typically skittish birds display no apprehension over our comings and goings toward and beneath their nest, we presume the same pair--followed by their offspring--have made their annual return to build their home in what they’ve determined to be a safe location. They should know by now that we won’t hurt them, though I suspect they’re secretly training their young for a camera-thieving ambush. Operation Stoparazzi...I’ll be sure to keep you posted. In the unlikely event these flightless youngsters achieve the highest ninja rank, it seems reasonable to expect no further photographic evidence of their progress. Since they’re still attempting to master such illustrious skills as opening their eyes and swallowing regurgitated insects, though, I’m not exactly losing any sleep over the prospect.

As usual, the proud parents have welcomed three young into their lives, babies that hatched only last week. They currently resemble chatty, bald Muppets, save for a few fine hairs sticking straight up from the tops of their heads, but they are a wonder to observe. One of them consistently prefers to snooze with his head dangling over the edge of the nest. He often looks as if he’s smiling. Yesterday afternoon, I witnessed him breathing deeply—clearly slumbering—while his beak opened and closed at erratic intervals in what appeared to be the robin equivalent of sleep talking. The papa bird maintained a grumpy countenance (as much as a bird can, at any rate) during a babysitting stint that was far from silent, but the mother returned soon after with another beakful of sustenance. Once relieved of his child-rearing duties, the male gratefully flew off to do whatever it is male birds do—grab a quick pint or play a round of golf or some other competitive sport, I imagine. (Probably not badminton as they’re understandably wary of any activity that requires bashing birdies.)

Flight feathers are the last to grow, but even those will cover our little triplets soon enough. They’ll fledge within another week. After a couple days more, the young will learn to fly and our robin family will disperse until it’s time to lay another clutch. In the meantime, Dennie and I will relish every sighting as these dedicated parents labor tirelessly to keep their brood safe and healthy, as these blind, babbling babies develop, learn, and live for every opportunity to eat worms and thrive.