The Father by janetb

The Father

I pushed open the side porch door with my left hand while a freshly filled Oriole feeder precariously dangled from the pointer finger on my right hand. Determined not to drip one drop of sugar water (much less lose a gob of grape jelly), I very carefully reached for my next obstacle: the gate. I made my way through as overgrown honeysuckle vines twisting around the gate’s narrow black rods stretched tentacle-like to brush against my arms and neck; and at the sight of the unobstructed path finally before me, I took a relieved step toward the feeder pole. Just then, a Robin interrupted my mission as it blasted out of the tangled honeysuckle in a fluster. Who knew a Robin’s nest resided in there?? I peeked in and found three eggs!

A nesting pair would never allow another Robin to come close to its nest; so this Robin, caught yesterday sunning itself on a branch of the nearby Paperbark Maple, is no doubt the father. (The mother would display a brood patch.) Always fascinated by a bird's instinct to warm itself by the light of the morning sun, I watched for quite a while as the golden rays chased away the chill of the night.

I could spend the day at a window — any window — and never grow tired of looking.
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