Song of the Bluebirds

Each day I hear the bluebirds sing.  We have several living in our neighborhood.  They perch on my crepe myrtles, feed at our birdfeeder.  On some days, their song is clear and strong.  At other times, it's a little more soft, a bit muted.

Eastern Bluebird (Source: http://www.musicofnature.org/)

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the nest a pair of bluebirds built in our mailbox. 


I continued to carefully monitor the mailbox, and found that the pair quickly moved on to another home.  My chosen theory is that they determined the location was just too busy.  We get mail daily, and I have a large patch of black-eyed susans underneath the mailbox that I had to water frequently at the time, because we were experiencing a stretch of dry weather.  In any case, I prefer to think that was the reason they left.


Shortly after I discovered the bluebirds left our nest, our neighbors told us that a pair of wrens had made a nest in their mailbox this spring, and hatched and raised a brood in it as well.  My neighbor shared an amusing story about one incident she and her daughter experienced while trying to retrieve their mail. She drove up to their mailbox, and when she rolled down the window to reach for the mail, the mother wren flew straight through the open window and into their car!  Poor thing -- it was just as startled as they were.  They were able to open their car windows and help the mama escape before it harmed itself in any way.


Hearing the story, I began to miss our mailbox bluebirds.  I bought a nesting box, but it remained in the dining area. I wasn't quite sure where to place it.  


Then, I read a story posted by my fellow blogger, Holly, on her blog Your Gardening Friend, about birds nesting above her motion detector light. Her story provides a glimpse of a songbird's dramatic struggle to raise its young.  She expresses the anxiety that we humans can feel in our background role as observers of nature.  When a hatchling falls from the nest, she struggles with the desire to protect it, and the hesitation to intervene.   


One evening, I bought some stain for the nesting box.  If we were going to put it up in the yard, we might as well make it a pretty home.  Our nephew was also going to be staying with us for a few days, so I figured it would be a good little outside project for him.

My mom told me about a small ornamental, but functional, birdbath on sale at the hardware store.  I picked one up over Memorial Day weekend and put it in the flower garden.  I felt that the least I could do, in the oppressive heat wave that we just couldn't seem to shake off, was provide a little water.   


Our nephew arrived, and he spent one sunny morning applying the stain.  We scouted a location for it, and recruited my husband to get an old post from our spare lumber pile on which to mount the box.  My husband got out the post-hole digger, and a few inches down, hit what felt like bedrock in our clay-based soil.  It was too dry -- it had been too hot for too long.  Another time, he said.  Once we get some rain, I'll put this up for you.


And then the thunderstorm came, with a dramatic entrance, bringing us a long, soaking rain.  I took one of the dogs and went for a long walk early the next morning. The air felt refreshed, and the earth somehow relieved.  The birds seemed to sing with more fervor than ever. Another thunderstorm arrived that evening.  The following morning, I ventured out again to enjoy another early morning walk.


That's when I discovered it.  The round nest was tilted awkwardly on its side, in the unlikely location at the foot of a mailbox; the signature blue eggs were spilled forward onto the black pavement.  Bluebirds had made another mailbox nest, this time at a vacant home down the street, but they had not been successful.  A predator, or, perhaps, a curious neighborhood cat, had scooped the nest out of the mailbox, knocking it to the ground.  It hadn't been there during my walk on the previous morning, so the damage must have occurred during that previous day.  I also saw that the pair had already started a new nest -- the mailbox contained a thin layer of pine straw teased into what appeared to be an evolving circular pattern.


I scooped up the fallen nest, and placed the damaged eggs temporarily back into it.  I pushed the small new nest back into the back of the vacant house's mailbox, away from that precipitous edge.  I knew what I needed to do.

My husband put up the nesting box that day.  I didn't have time to apply the matching stain to the old post, but I didn't care. 

I placed the eggs from the failed nest in the woods, but thought that perhaps the nesting material could be re-usable.  I pulled the nest slightly apart, and placed it upside down in a crook between two branches in a tree just feet away from the new nesting box.

That was on Sunday.

On Tuesday, I stopped by the nesting box on my way to water my butterfly bushes.  I noticed the nesting material that I had placed in the tree was completely gone, but some evidence of activity appeared in the box.  I took a closer look.  A few pieces of pine straw peeked out of the entrance and the bottom corner.

Hesitantly, I opened the box.

Later that same evening, I saw the female bluebird perched atop her new home.  Her breast jutted out confidently as she appeared to intently survey her surroundings.  Her posture radiated excitement; she stood tall and leaned forward on her perch. She was chirping emphatically in the direction of the pine trees nearby, as though calling out directions to a mate who was busy gathering more supplies.  Since then, I've seen her flitting back and forth from the nest a few times, and I know she's noticed me -- I can't quite get close enough to capture a decent photo.  I don't want to disturb them too much, however.  I'm quite content to let them make themselves at home.


I now hear the bluebirds' crisp, vibrant song in the morning as I step out the door to leave for work.  And now, I know.     


I know the song the bluebirds sing. 


It is a song of hope.