Just outside her window, Sara Alexander observes an avian tale of life and death unfold.
A week ago Thursday, something caught my eye: a tiny bird, half the size of my thumb, circling the Laurel tree outside my window. I stepped out for a closer look and she chittered at me loudly, until I – who am about 20,000 times bigger than she – retreated inside. In a few days it became clear that she was gathering spider silk and I felt my heart sink. I cannot bear a repeat of last year’s show.
When the hummingbird of 2022 arrived, it took me a while to understand that she was weaving a nest right outside. I spent every free minute at the window, mesmerized by the unfolding show, high as a junkie. While the tree sprouted short stalks of yellow buds, Mama Bird sat on two tiny eggs, through rain and cold, and crazy winds. After a few weeks she left her nest and I panicked; but she returned to feed nectar and bugs to invisible progeny. I started to make out tiny dark beaks, then scraggly heads with oversized eyes, and soon two beautiful, full-blown baby birds. I counted the days until fledging.
Purely by chance, I caught Hummer Mom chasing off some large birds, and two fat grey squirrels. I felt sick at heart, unable to help. That evening I couldn’t see hummers through the twilight and morning confirmed the nest was empty. I was outside, sobbing like a child, when Mama showed up and circled the crime scene. Then flew gently towards me, hovered near my face, and was gone.
I had been preparing for some fabulous Hollywood Ending. But I got a brutal reminder of nature’s cycle of life and death.