Birds Falling Out of Nests

            The bird fell out of the nest.  It sat in the grass, looking startled and small.  The dog jogged over (‘uh oh’), but the bird flapped its inconsequential wings and floated at grass-top height, scooting away from the dog.  He was not interested anyway.  He lay down and yawned.

            Early that same day, in the morning as we had our breakfast, we watched four small birds crowd the nest which sits in the crook where the porch roof ties to the house.  We watched every day.

We had watched the parents build the nest and then the mother sit, her mate bringing her delicious take-out.  We saw the hatchlings hatch.  We’ve enjoyed the show of watching them grow.  And now the nest was empty and one of the four could not get off the lawn. 

            When I saw the little bird in the grass, fortunately my wee girl was at camp, riding horses.  This will be a big shock, I thought. 

Before getting into the dilemma posed – does a Dad let his little daughter see nature take it’s course, see the failing fledgling struggle, or do I step in to help the bird, altering the circle of life? – there are analogies to ponder.

            When our son was born, a hundred years ago, a friend said, as he held the tiny four-week old baby, ‘it’ll be a lot of joy watching this kid grow up.’  I had no idea.  Watching all the kids in town grow from tiny seedlings into miscreant teens is a true joy. 

In a small town like ours the kids first meet almost at inception, maybe lying on the floor of the day care, reaching from one un-strapped car seat to the next to share soggy, pre-chewed graham cracker.  They bond almost like cousins and then we watch through the ‘how cute’ years to the gangly days and soon you see someone’s toddler driving a car.  It can’t be!  He can’t be more than four years old!  But he is not four years old, he is sixteen, looking at colleges, coaching lacrosse and he speaks four languages fluently.

            It is shocking how soon kids fly out of the nest.  Parents are still required – to drive to freshman orientation, to front the airfare (and tuition), to feed not only their own children but also now as well the large college friends with voracious appetites.  We see it all over town – the fledglings are going if not gone. 

I stared at this tiny analogy lying on my lawn.  What do I do with the baby bird?

I asked around – even posted on Facebook – to see if anyone knew what to do with a tiny bird not able to fly on its first try out of the nest.  I heard in response some advice to engage in tough love (it is nature’s course and who are we to stand in its way?), horror stories of crushing worms to feed the babes only to have them fail in the end, and two true friends came by with the business card of a woman who cares for fallen wildlife (there’s a column there for sure).

            So what do I do?  Give my nine-year-old daughter a dose of hard reality?  (“Well, honey, this baby will die because the world is a cruel and heartless beast and only the fit should survive ….”).  Uhh, no. 

The options were, first, to endure a week of nurturing the tiny thing by regurgitating bugs into its mouth only to reap the same inevitable sad end, or hope for its quick demise.  Hope a hawk might get it before horse camp ends.  Really send the dog after it.  Maybe just mow the lawn.

            It makes me wonder if parenting ever gets easy.  Although we each hope our kids will be the strong birds that fly off on that first try and soar to treetop, it could well be one or more might need some time to find their wings.  We wouldn’t want a hawk to take our fledglings, sitting on the couch watching Ellen, waiting to figure out how to fly.  How then could I allow such a fate to fall on the little bird?  The baby we’d watched all spring grow from an egg to the edge of potential?

            In the end I went out to collect the bird-ling so we could try to raise it in a cardboard box.  Luckily for me it was not there.  It had gone. 

The chickens were around so I don’t believe a hawk took it (chickens don’t stick around when the hawk flies over).  The dog was inside.  There were no feathers in the grass.  I am sure the little one just got it together and went out into the world.

            We all do eventually.  For now our little one need not know the harsh truth of life.  And we will watch with joy the next crop of local kids begin to perch on the edge of their nests.  We’ll be ready to scoop them up too if they fall to the ground.  We’ll know, sooner or later, they each will learn to soar.

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2012 David Rocchio