I am ashamed to say that I have committed a cold-hearted deed. What type of person turns a family of five out into the driving rain, then sits down with a cup of coffee in the front porch rocker to admire her handiwork? Weeks ago this would never have happened. When they first came to me, seeking shelter, I felt sympathetic, even accommodating. I tried to be understanding of their perspective and I tiptoed around their timeline. After all, they were keeping the place clean, and there were hungry mouths to feed. The tenants were clearly doing the best they could to live up to expectations.
But old softy that I am, even I have my limits. When they all came flying out in my face, chirping and squawking, as I approached the door to my own sanctuary, it was the last straw. Yes, they rid my yard of extra insects and worms, and fill the air with beautiful music on a daily basis, but we can no longer peacefully co-exist in close quarters.
I’d been observing the nest over a period of about a month of weekend visits to our mountain home. I first noticed it in early April, a squatter’s shack of twigs, grass and lichen erected, without a building permit, I might add, atop the light fixture at our front door. We debated whether to move it, but didn’t have the heart. So my husband cleaned the white stains left by the breeding pair of robins in their building process and we decided to give them a chance, if they were willing to let us in and out of our abode without doing violence. The mother bird startled up off the nest every time we opened the door, but did not abandon it, coming back to sit, most likely with nestlings. We could only guess as to how long the nest had been present, if the laying of eggs was imminent, or if there were any progeny already holed up above our porch light. They must have hunkered down the one time my husband climbed a ladder to take a peek.
When I returned two weeks hence for a long weekend with my mother and sister, the area beneath the nest was oddly clean and clear of any bird droppings, but Mama Robin was still present. She tolerated us, coming and going, and while we didn’t hear anything that sounded like baby birds, in hindsight she was faithfully feeding those nestlings. I have since learned that Robin eggs incubate for approximately 14 days, with the female parent brooding on the nest in order to keep the babies warm. I researched this after the fact, to assuage my guilt. When the babies are old enough to stay warm, the female parent will only be on the nest at night, or during bad weather. The birds instinctively fall silent in the presence of “predators,” which includes me, I suppose, and usually only chirp when feeding. In addition, the mysterious cleanliness, which initially caused me to assume the nest was abandoned, was simply a feature of the robin’s nesting behavior that is both necessary and repugnant.
In an online article by Tim and Henry Night at their Nature Mapping Program, I read that “nestlings produce a "fecal sac" - a white bundle of poop - after each feeding. After the nestling eats a worm, they lift up their rear and excrete the white sac which is collected in the beak of the adult bird. Fecal sacs are like disposable diapers for birds!”
It gets worse. “Sometimes the parent carries the fecal sac away in their beak and drops it far from the nest. Other times the adult swallows the fecal sac at the nest site. Apparently, the parents may eat the sacs for extra nutrition.” *
Hmm. It seems that dealing with a lot of crap is a universal expectation of parenting, no matter your species!
The most important thing I learned is that a robin’s nest needs at least one undisturbed month to be successful. This has me feeling a little better about my selfish deed. The babies had clearly outgrown their diapers this trip. The porch deck needs a good scrubbing. And after the whole family swarmed out of there at me like clowns out of a circus car, the fledglings are clearly full-feathered, and can get around well enough to find new digs. The lease above my porch light has officially expired.
Thanks to some sage advice from a Kalamazoo couple with close feathered friends, I will be placing a flower pot upside down between the wall and the porch light at the earliest convenience, so that I can avoid a repeat of this tragic social injustice and be a better neighbor to the Robins of Highlands, North Carolina. * (retrieved from http://www.scienceprofonline.com/biology-general/american-robin-turdus-migratorius-nestling-chick-development.html)
I look happily over my clean entry way and thank my lucky stars that my ornithophobic friend Suzanne was not along this trip, as she would have had a heart attack and died if those birds ended up in my hair or especially hers. The displaced mother looks daggers at me from the safety of the tree line, however, and Kenny Chesney sings inside my head. “Can’t we all get along?” I imagine Mrs. Robin had plans for another brood. She and I share an appreciation for prime real estate.
Maybe that very pretty little nest, which has been removed to the safety of a window box on my garage, will be transported to the eaves of my back porch, and well away from the ingress and egress. It could save her a little trouble if she’s willing to relocate. I am an old softy, after all.
*retrieved from both naturemappingfoundation.org/natmap/facts/american_robin/nest.html and https://www.learner.org/jnorth/tm/robin/FecalSacs.html
