Spring……
In that way that Spring has, the house was cold, yet I could see a narrow slip of sun along the edge of my small verandah, bright and golden, inviting warmth, inviting me. My expedition through the door seemed to require laptop, sunglasses, and of course my phone, a return trip for chai..... In the way of things, clouds stole the warmth as I fetched my chair and arranged the table, sending me back inside for a throw rug and scarf, but then the strip of sun reappeared and quietly widened, warming my head and shoulders as I signed into my computer, chose music, finally sat, settled, stopped, breathed…….looked up.
Close by, tiny buds on a young honeysuckle had become fragrant flowers of yellow and white. I had been tucking and weaving its new growth along my fence but had not touched it for a little while now and the wooden trellis was chaotic with waving tendrils flung outward and up as they sought purchase. Instead of this tending, I had begun to glide past as softly as I could, seeking to portray myself as small and benign to the blackbird who had built her nest where the honeysuckle met the porch roof. A wise, sheltered spot, and a sturdy nest, made mostly from cane taken from a rickety garden shelf and carefully shredded, along with softer, found items which I had not seen but trusted were tucked inside. We watched each other through the window beside my writing desk as she carefully crafted her nursery, laid her eggs, patiently sat. There were several scares from a family of noisy miners who swooped in to investigate, but each time her mate lured them away and sent them flying in a deluge of furious sound and wings.
In that way that humans have, I fretted over this small miracle. What kind of bird was she? I googled - ah yes, a blackbird. Common, they called her, which I found scurrilous. A blackbird. This information made no difference to her, but I felt more in control. Where was the male? Google said he should be feeding her, so why was she leaving her nest? I shared a photo with friends and this led to still more worrisome questions. Did she have eggs yet? I would not look, but I hoped so for her sake. Did she have phantom eggs? Were the eggs fertile, if they were there? Were they getting too cold while she was gone? Was I scaring her away when I opened my door? At some point, I stopped googling and decided to trust the process. She didn't appear to notice this change, but I did.
Just yesterday, as I opened my curtains, I caught a glimpse of unfeathered heads, bright yellow beaks raised wide and urgent above the lip of their nest. Two, I counted, and then a third.
In that way that sunshine has, the warmth is spreading now, reflecting off the wall behind me and filling the verandah with light. We unfurl together in the heat, the honeysuckle and I. New flowers open and I shed scarf and rug while around us the blackbird mother and mate flick by with emphatic flashes of sound. They are full of purpose, and swift of flight. The male makes endless circuits around his perimeter as a gang of noisy miners threaten to bully their way in, while a raven and two doves commune in noncommittal witness from the fence. The female darts down through the melee in silence, her beak firmly closed around first a small worm, then later something that was once, itself, winged. A pocket of breeze carries tiny, insistent sounds from within the nest, almost enough to make my own milk come down. I turn off my music and listen, instead, to the sounds of family.
