Busy as a Bird

It’s probably best, this time of year, to refrain from complaining about how busy you are to any livestock farmer you might meet – unless of course, you yourself are a livestock farmer – or a bird trying to raise a brood here in New England.

I too, try not to whine, at least not out loud, as I rush about my day, trying to get everything done that needs to get done to keep our brand new chicks, lambs, and piglets alive and out of trouble. At first it’s easy - so long as they are warm, fed and safe from predators, keeping everyone alive is a piece of cake. Then they grow, bigger, stronger, louder and braver, testing the fence, the gates, the water trough, the tractor, the laws of gravity, and ultimately my patience. It’s as if the better job I do at keeping them healthy, the more energy they have with which to drive me insane.

As I feel my life careening out of control, like a car crash in slow motion, I take great solace knowing that I’m not the only one – that, in fact, every bird I see is feeling pretty much the same. We are all struggling to stay one step ahead of the weather, our growing broods, and the number of hours allotted to us each day.

This afternoon, I was installing temporary fencing so I could move the lambs to a new area to graze - just to keep them from breaking out of the old one. I knew full well that moving them wouldn’t solve the problem for long - that as soon as the grass was greener on the other side, these lambs would figure out a way to get back there. Exasperated, I looked up just as a bluejay flew past me with a piece of hay in his beak. He was clearly in a rush and totally focused on getting his mate the building materials she needed for their nest. His work this summer is just beginning, mine at least is partway through. First he would have the mad rush to find all the materials to build a nest so she could lay her eggs. Then as soon as the eggs hatched, he'd be working overtime to keep the hatchlings fed.

Not far from the cedar tree that hides the bluejay’s new home, a pair of bluebirds were scouting out the bluebird house that Anne and I made for them a few years back. The male perched outside the house and waved his wing repeatedly. The “wing wave” is the male bluebird’s signal to the female to come and see. It means he’s found a nice spot and wants her approval. Perhaps I’m projecting a bit, but I swear I could see the fatigue in his waving wing. “C’mon this one’s perfect! It has everything you said you wanted! Can we please stop looking now?”

Later in the day, while refilling the water trough that the piglets had flipped over (again), I saw a robin swipe a juicy worm from the muddy edges of the pig pasture. Since she didn’t immediately swallow it, I figured she was probably bringing it back to a nest filled with hatchlings. Shutting off the water, I called out “I’m sure they’ll appreciate all you’ve done for them when they have hatchlings of their own!”

The chimney swifts chattered as they went frenetically past. If speed is any indication of their productivity, I can’t begin to imagine all that they accomplish in a day.

A finch has moved into, and completely remodeled, the old robin’s nest on the transom above our front door. She collected dog hair from the dog bed on the porch, wool from below the skirting table where we sorted last fall’s sheep shearing, and some brilliant blue baling twine I’d discarded by the fence line. There really wasn’t anything wrong with the robin’s old nest but clearly, she wanted to make it her own.

When the sun started to set, I checked to make sure all the chickens had returned to the coop and then locked them safely inside. A great horned owl flew off, disappointed, I’m sure, to have seen me coming.

As the sky got darker, the swifts started to drop down into our chimney for the night - and some bats emerged from somewhere to take over as their night shift began.

The finch on the transom was nestled in with her 3 hatchlings and watched as I called our dogs inside for the night and shut the door. “Sweet dreams” I said switching off the porch light and leaving her in total darkness. “Rest up - tomorrow is another day.”