A Bird in the Hand . . .

Every spring the walnut trees and rosebushes on the property host a new generation of birds. From tiny titmouse to predatory owls and redtail hawks, the trees are alive with the hustle and song of parents attending to their hungry nestlings.

We sometimes find baby birds in the most surprising places. Last spring I was deadheading a lush climbing rose and I spotted an empty nest deep in the thick thorny shrubbery. As my hand froze in midair I realized that there were five baby birds sitting motionless on twigs all around my hair. Naturally I backed out and left the deadheading for another day.

Last year my father made us a great birdhouse, but I never put it up, preferring to keep it near my work table in the greenhouse. My greenhouse is more than a place to start seedlings—I often read or work in my cozy saltbox greenhouse, particularly on rainy days when I can watch the ocean storms approaching. At summer’s end I noticed a thick layer of birdseed shells inside the birdhouse, so I assumed that a family of mice had moved in. I pried the roof open, and found soft nesting material, seeds, colorful threads, and one tiny bird egg.

This week’s flurry of baby birds includes this ugly baby, which tumbled from its nest above the winery crush pad. His tiny wings were not strong enough yet to fly, and his little legs were still wobbly. He would try to stand and flutter his wings, but then his legs would tremble and he’d fall over on his chin. Tyler, our manly dude in the tasting room, made a grass-filled shallow box for the baby and we left him near the nest where his mommy could fuss over him. Over the course of two days he got stronger and was finally able to achieve a brief lift-off into a nearby bush.

From the kitchen window one morning Dan and I watched a small group of nestlings darting exuberantly around the backyard. As Dan reached toward the water tap he suddenly froze and whispered, "Mareeeee, there’s a burrrrrd sitting on the wiiiiine glass." Sure enough, a young titmouse had flown in through the open kitchen door and was perched serenely on an unwashed wine glass near the sink. I held out my hand and Little Tit climbed right on. As I moved carefully toward the door, Little Tit decided my head was a better vantage point. I could feel his talons grasping my hair. "Sure hope he doesn’t poop," Dan injected cheerfully. As I moved slowly toward the sunporch exit, Little Tit jumped down to my shoulder and clung to my shirt, then he launched himself out the door and flew away with little hiccuping bounces in the air.