My interest in the mother wren on our front porch has taken an unexpected turn, from hope to joy to mourning. A few days ago I heard the sweet, high-pitched, chirp chirps of baby birds in the nest and was happy that the eggs survived recent freezing temperatures and new life was born! I felt the same joy seeing the red rosebuds and white blossoms on the dogwood and pear trees open. Their presence exclaims their hearty fragility to have overcome icy winds and burst forth in splenderous array. Having the mother wren nearby has taught me the sound of her great song in the mornings when she greeted the new day at dawn in the red, Japanese maple near her nest. I didn’t dare open the door to hear her song but peeked out the window and knew it was her praising her Creator as it is her innate nature to do so. My grateful heart for her surviving yet another cold night soared with her song. Hope rises with the sun in such moments.
Yesterday, however, was a different story. I had come home from a meeting feeling peaceful and stretched, like my spirit had gone to an exercise class. My body needed to stretch also so I took on the task of cutting back a dead palm that didn’t survive the January snowstorm. I had been avoiding the unpleasant task, hoping new life would spring forth like Lazarus from the grave. Somehow I faced the reality that a pruning of the dead parts is a good and necessary thing. As I worked I kept my eyes open for the mother wren and listened for the baby birds’ chirps. It was a warm and beautiful mid afternoon but all was quiet in the house that wren built. When I finished the palm bush I went inside for a break and didn’t emerge until later in the afternoon with my husband and the dogs for our daily walk.
As soon as we set foot out the door the dogs yanked me further down the sidewalk while Pedro locked the door. I thought they were overly excited for their walk, filled with spring fever like me. They stopped suddenly and started sniffing at what I thought were dead leaves but upon a closer look it was a dead, baby bird. I gasped and couldn’t believe it. My shock gave way to horror. I moved it to the dirt with a stick near the statue of St. Francis and not far from where last year’s Easter lilies are popping through the soil. We continued on our walk but I was sad and perplexed. This was not the ending to the story that I wished to write. I am accustomed to life and death moments as years of pets and even our walks remind us. A dead opossum in a neighbor’s yard under a shrub is a constant battle with the dogs every time we pass by. We did tell our neighbor it was there but she has chosen to let nature take its course. Questions arose as we walked: How could this happen? Who would do such a thing? How many baby birds were there?
My first inclination was to blame the squirrels. We have so many of them around the house and they are always scurrying about. But that didn’t make sense since I think they like nuts and I have never seen them eating dead animals. Well then I started to blame predatory birds. I know buzzards show up for road kill but even they missed the dead opossum down the street. Pedro mentioned he saw a few birds fly away from the porch yesterday afternoon when he opened the door. He didn’t really get a good look though.
This morning I staked out the front porch with my coffee in hand. It was well past dawn and I had a late start but I hoped for some answers. I watched a gray feathered bird drink from the fountain and eat from the core of the newly trimmed saga palm. I watched the squirrels hunt for their buried acorn treasures and chase each other in the branches of the ivy covered oak. So far no predatory behavior to observe as I welcomed the new day from my rocking chair. I kept thinking about the poor baby bird who will never fly, whose life was cut short. I thought about the mother wren and wondered if she’d been taken too. Sometimes death comes to our doorstep and robs us of our joy. The analogy extends to my own grief for my mother, father, grandmother, brother and brother in law. The recent deaths of the Parkland High Innocents welled up in me and I can only imagine the grief of the many parents who lost their children that horrifying day, on Valentines Day no less. My heart gave way to prayer that those who mourn will be comforted; that their tears will turn to joy and their mourning will turn to dancing.
Just as I was ready to go inside and make breakfast I noticed several wrens milling about on the sidewalk where the baby bird had been lying lifeless. I hadn’t buried it yet when I moved it to the dirt. They chirped in short staccato notes, not the usual song I came to recognize at dawn. They appeared to be seeking the baby bird, returning for answers as humans seek to do also in times of tragedy. They found the baby bird lying in the dirt. I waited and watched and after they’d gone I buried the innocent near St. Francis. I hope mother wren will be alright one day soon. I know she has to move forward as we all do and that becomes possible with time and healing. But even they must mourn and go through their rituals when death comes. This gathering of wrens was a mystery and I don’t understand their ways but I respect them and let them be.
As I write this a flurry of white blossoms has been falling like snow from a nearby tree and I see that the leaf buds have been reappearing and opening up as they do each spring. The blossoms come for a time and are carried off with the wind. The rich green leaves are with us for a time until autumn returns and the leaves are lost to winter’s resting place. I feel hope in spite of the long, frozen winter. I hear crows cawing nearby and now I want to blame them for the baby bird’s untimely demise. I can’t prove it though and don’t want to dwell on death when I know life here on earth is temporary for all. Still, I want justice where there may be none, not here on earth anyway. I remember these wise words: “Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasure in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” Matthew 6:19-21.
Snippets and Snatches 