The calm and silence in my backyard is almost deafening. For a short while both parents are absent. When they do appear it is without food. A crow is allowed to perched atop the telephone pole without threat.
The nest is empty. This puzzles me because elsewhere I hear the distinct squealing of babies being fed. Or maybe it’s just in my head, the soundtrack of my life this past week. I listen and watch. The sound comes again, from the neighbor’s orange tree along our shared fence line.
How did they get there and if they can fly why are they still being fed? Questions from an amateur naturalist, a bird hobbyist, someone who knows little about the life cycle of the bird. These questions send me to the internet.
The babies are “fledgings”. They are mature enough to fly, but not developed enough to care for themselves. For the next two weeks they will practice their flight skills and learn to eat under the watchful eye of dad. I may find the babies on the ground after failed flight attempts. The cat’s life just got a little smaller and more guarded.
The next day they are across the yard from one another. One in a pear blossom tree in another neighbor’s yard and one in a low hedge on the other side of my yard. They travel the distances at night. They are so quiet and still (except at feeding time), that twice I find myself standing or kneeling next to a bush only to turn my head and find a baby a foot away staring at me.
I’m drawn to their story.
Go to Mockingbird Chronicles Part VIII
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