There’s a bird in the bushes. A delightful house wren making all sorts of music. One moment, she’s tweeting her bubbly Summer call and the next she’s jumping on the wind chimes that hangs between the two bird houses. When I look away, I catch her tail feather squeezing into the little orange and white box that she has picked out.
It’s hard to tell whether she’s still building her nest or not. In her mouth, I think she’s carrying a worm but it might be a few more twigs to complete what looks like a pretty impressive structure.
She’s very protective of her new home and circles a ten-metre radius before venturing off on another foraging run. I have to wait until she’s off on one of those adventures before peaking in the house.
Poking my eye into the small circular hole, I can’t make out very much. There are all sorts of sticks piled together but it’s so dark that I can’t make out any eggs. I don’t linger too long, to make sure that I don’t scare her away. It really does feel like the nest is buried deep inside of a tree, warm and secure.
Today is Sunday. Sitting under an umbrella, it’s definitively overcast and light rain is a constant. There’s not much traffic in this part of the world on a Sunday morning. The symphony of birds is wonderfully audible, well past its normal city sunrise hours.
In the huge pine trees at the edge of the garden, squirrels perform their high-wire act in the tree tops but before I can pay too much attention, the wren comes back. She’s without any colour. A greyish brown, the best camouflage. Singing her powerful and melodious song, like an alto sax playing lines of cheery swing, she doesn’t need any colour to stand out. I’ve really enjoyed listening and watching this new friend.
The rain starts again, it’s no problem with the tempo set at Sunday slow-time. Listening, watching, writing and reading. Perfect.
(The American House Wren)