After the old bird box, made by my uncle, fell apart, I did nothing for a few years. I had labeled it the House of Death after a black snake raided the wrens, dropping the dead chicks to the ground as it dangled like a necklace from the box.This year, I realized how much I missed the nesting birds and so mounted a new box. The first brooders ignored it; I figured it might need a year to season before they deemed it worthy. Soon, however, these chickadees began their inspecting, building, brooding, and hatching. Here, one passes food to the other to feed the chicks. I am so joyfully entranced to watch them in their purposeful business.
A few mornings after this interchange, I was out early, chasing a rabbit who was wistfully gazing through my barricades at the lettuce. On my way, I noticed something strange on the chickadee box, thought it possibly a wasp nest, and circled back to check it out after the rabbit was successfully shooed. Approaching from the other side, I could identify the coiled checkered snake easily, lumped on top of the box.
While I am one with the wonders of nature, understand the natural balance of things, yadayada, no one messes with my chickadees. A 12' pole and a husband with a hammer later, that danger was dispensed with.
Three days later, soft down is protruding from the box. Another marauder? The flight of the chicks and the next tenants moving in? Were my gestures futile? Ephemeral? Wistful?
