I pushed some birds out of the nest recently. Well, scared them out is more accurate and I am speaking literally of birds. I often have a nest built above my porch light, but not this year. It took me a little while to figure out why the neighbor kids were making a daily but quick trip to my front porch as soon as they got off the school bus. I realized there must be a bird’s nest in the tall shrub by my front door and a look out my front window confirmed that.
But I forgot about it when I was outside and noticed a dead branch in this shrub and yanked it out. Out flew two very startled robin parents followed by their frightened fledglings. One landed somewhere in the landscaping below my front windows and the other was out in the yard, hopping and flopping and flapping its wings. I was concerned about that bird because it wasn’t able to fly enough to defend itself from my cat Angel the Huntress or from other neighborhood cats or dogs. But I knew the parents were up in the tree squawking and swooping so I thought it best to leave it alone.
So I went inside but I couldn’t quit worrying about the birds and about the neighbor kid’s reaction. I thought, “I have to get those babies back in their nest!”
I went outside wearing garden gloves in case one wanted to bite me and one of the fledglings was inside my low flowering almond bush, but it got scared when I walked past and flew out. So I decided to shepherd it back toward the tall shrub with the nest in the hopes it would make its way back in.
I’m chasing this baby bird around my front yard as in its terrified state it’s squealing with the wide-open baby bird mouth. Its frantic parents were dive-bombing me squawking and swooping and images of getting my eyes pecked out a la Hitchcock’s “The Birds” came to mind and I realized I wasn’t helping.