robin’s egg blue
Tonight I took pictures of the bird nest that was abandoned in our wisteria last week. After the nest had been conspicuously empty for a day and a half, I held a mirror at arm’s length above my head to inspect the inside of it and we gasped at the sight of four beautiful blue eggs left by the bold little robin who decided to move in next to our front door.
I pondered only taking the pretty little eggs out and leaving the nest but the past couple weeks living with “Robeena”, as we liked to refer to her, was a minor trial in sanitation. She built the nest inside the soffitt of the porch roof, right over the top two porch steps and let me tell you….robins can be messy little shitters. At least compared to the spazzy house wrens who built a nest in the wisteria a few feet away mainly as a place to rest in the afternoon or hang out at 3:30 in the morning (if they don’t shut down their tweety ghetto blasters I’m gonna call their parents).
It was an eerie couple weeks living with Robeena. She wouldn’t budge when we came and went, I felt like an invader on my own front porch. She’d sit up there and stare at us like we were house burglars. We started to worry about a bird in the house the way she swooped into the porch from the sides: Either that or a bird beak implanted in our skulls. Still, I found myself growing very protective of our little birdguest. I perturbed Diana a little bit one morning when I pleaded with her to use the back door for coming and going.
In the end, it wasn’t us that decided Robeena’s fate. On the same day 1. We had our sofa and livingroom rug professionally de-pugstinkified (in preparation for Bambino’s arrival, we thought it’d be nice to have the house smelling fresher than usual) and 2. The windows on the outside of the house cleaned (we’ve got windows up way higher than I’m comfortable climbing on a ladder so we have them cleaned by someone else every few years). It was a lot of racket, too many clinking ladders and screaming vacuum gadgets for a bird to handle. I had a bad feeling the morning before all the ruckus started. I’d already convinced Diana we couldn’t paint the peeling porch this summer. Think of the baby birds, I told her. We don’t want them to get light-headed from the paint fumes right before their first flight! Or land upside down in tacky paint!
I got used to gardenhosing bird poop off the porch steps every night. It became a ritual to check on Robeena through the window of the front door every time I went up or down the stairs: Occasionally she’d catch me looking at her and stare back with a resigned bird look. It was clear we’d come to a mutual understanding of each other. I’m having a hard time getting into the habit of leaving the porch light on at night, again. I usually left it turned off so Robeena could get a good night sleep.