Every year a robin builds a nest on the down spout near our front door. It’s become a robin ‘hood, so to speak. The mother-to-be watches, suspiciously, from a distance whenever I’m in the yard. However, for reasons I can’t fathom, she flies off in terror if we open the front door. Can’t she instinctively feel that I wouldn’t hurt her? Can’t she see I’m waaaaay too short to reach her nest? Can’t she sense that just because my nest is empty I wouldn’t raid hers? I guess not.
The condition of the nest is interesting. I don’t know if it is the same robin each year, or if different robins use the nest, but each use warrants an addition of sorts. The nest keeps getting taller. I have a fantasy that once the babies appear they are going to hit their heads on the overhang. How much longer can it go before gravity and physics topple the leaning tower of pieces a’ grass? Baby robins demand Gerber’s strained worms, and get a bit squirmy when mom appears. What if they move too much and the nest falls? I’ve been stealth watching the show, and so far so good. The nest and eggs are safe for now, and it is the best part of my day.