She built a nest in an old bicycle helmet hanging from the porch eaves. I didn’t mind at all. Just a bit of serendipity for me to enjoy as I watch her take care of her brood. Wrens are part of the Troglodytidae family , and are mostly brown, and plain.
They are legend for building nests in strange places such as a watering can, or in a mailbox. The nests are sloppy around the edges. My Wren used a mish-mash of pine straw etc., and it looks as if pixie-sticks have gone crazy, and exploded on the edges of her nest. Those same edges illuminated by the setting sun are transformed into art, modern I suppose.
She is working hard now feeding the crew. I know how she feels as I stop to watch her fly back and forth. Finally, after checking at least eight times, she turned her back to feed her fluffy beings through the hollow orb door: entrance to the dark incubator micro-world. Finished, she pushes off of the helmet leaving it swinging back and forth for the rock-a-bye babies.
The chicks’ feathers, above their bulbous eyes, stand straight up as if they have been told a shocking secret. But they, of course, know nothing of emotion, tragedy, or even the sight of pink and yellow Lantana flowers just outside their helmet shell.
Thankfully, they can’t understand the world news broadcast ad nauseam. If they listen too long, they may never want to fly. However, in a few weeks their “shocked” feathers will lay down smoothly as their eyes change into a less ethereal appearance. Lucky me, to be able to observe such beauty all taking place within the orbit of a bicycle helmet.
They all left the nest. I watched a fuzzy chick shoot from the roses to the pecan tree. It was a low-level flight plan, but it seemed as if a sling shot catapulted the baby wren straight across the yard with a mighty force.
Baby made it! All day, the parents called them to leave the porch into the safety of the small grove of green. Finally, each one made it to the other side: brown fluffs of tiny wings ready to go higher.
At dusk, I tilted the helmet and found the egg that must have gotten lost in the pile so far down under that it had no way to develop from the mother bird’s warmth. It is translucent when held up to the light, and it inspires me. Such perfection in design makes my heart smile, and I am thankful.
