Earlier this week, I saw you carrying dried grasses inside a nesting box while your mate flew from barn peak to birdhouse perch to crimson maple tree.
I watched from inside through Vic’s astronomy telescope. About three decades ago, he and I set up two boxes on opposite ends of an old fence, and your ancestor moved in that spring.
This year, your first nesting was troubled. Instead of the usual four or five eggs, there were three and only one hatched. Hours after your well-tended single daughter fledged, I cleaned out your nest. Usually, a bluebird chooses a new site, but in a few days, your mate began guarding from his perches around the yard.
My heart filled with hope when I opened the nesting box and saw your woven circular nest. When you sit on your perch, your gray-blue feathers shine in the morning sun. Your mate is easy to spot with his iridescent cerulean back and orange breast. He and I are on high alert. Yesterday morning you spent 10 minutes in the nest. I don’t know how long it takes to lay an egg, but hoped you’d laid one.
I crave new life in this distressing world. Your mate’s morning warble and your nest building bring me hope.
Today, I found one blue egg in your nest and expect another tomorrow. “Hope is a thing with feathers,” Emily Dickinson wrote. May her words predict a happy ending.
By the time I posted this piece, there were four eggs since she lays just one a day. It’s possible there will be five tomorrow, but four is a balanced, complete number. I’m grateful for new life out my windows. What makes you hopeful in these challenging times?
For other posts about Bluebirds, see When the Bluebirds Fledged. For a post about surrendering to Nature, see Witnessing a Catastrophe? Search for Small Miracles.