365 True Things: 40/Nests

Just now I was looking out the kitchen window and saw movement in the nightshade (potato vine): a female dark-eyed junco (Junco hyemalis). She flitted down into the dried mint, shuffled around a bit, then, beak full of brown leaves, flitted back into the nightshade—or behind it, rather, to a horizontal strut on the fence. She did this a few more times, then flew off over the roof of the house. Soon she was back with some other material in her beak.

Is she making a nest?

The first nest I remember seeing up close was an Anna's hummingbird nest—somewhat like the ones shown here, but made mostly of white sycamore fuzz, no lichen or grass. It was about the size of a walnut, firmly fitted in the Y of two strong twigs. Alas, we found it only after the chicks had flown away—even though it was outside my bedroom window; but it was one of those high windows, and I was just six or seven, so I wouldn't have spent my time gazing out it. We cut the nest down, and I kept it on my desk until we moved a year later. I liked to feel the soft spongy material and imagine two tiny birds stuffed inside. It was a little beyond belief.

Even though I know nests are all around, I rarely see them. Which is right: they need the protection, the camouflage, the invisibility. But then I think of great blue herons and American egrets, which build nests high in eucalyptus and pine trees—great numbers of them sharing a condominium project and making a mighty racket. They don't worry about invisibility.

Maybe I'm just not good at looking for nests. Going slow and observing.

Well, I'll be keeping an eye on the backyard fence. If I'm lucky, I'll get to watch and see what happens with this one.

Photos courtesy of Thomas Strich and Maria Mahar via hummingbirdpictures.net 

and "jmc" via summitpost.org.