Big Bird

One day a few weeks ago, I came home from a week-long business trip to find that a mourning dove had built a nest just outside the door wall in my living room. On a six-inch metal ledge wedged between the screen and the railing that gives the illusion of outdoor space but in fact exists only to keep one from falling from the window, a fat mama bird accumulated a pile of twigs and grass and laid her eggs there.

What a sad and ironic urban cliche, to be not in one's own home for so long that a little bird--actually, a pair of them, as I eventually discovered--moved in and set up house.

I actually felt a little flutter of excitement when, up early one morning I caught sight of the nest before the dad came in to sit for the day shift, and saw the three tiny speckled spheres he was returning to warm. We're having a baby, I thought to myself. With Mother's Day just around the corner, I tingled with the anticipation of a heartwarming avian display of maternal tenderness and the miracle of life.

For the most part, a lot of it was boring or gross. Some dander floating around every now and then, but aside from that one glimpse of tiny eggs, mostly just a bird, sitting in a nest. I began to worry that I should be feeding mama bird--who I named Lady Jane Grey--but when I did some research I learned that both parents swap nesting time while the other goes out and eats. One day--finally, a day at home--I hung around to witness both shift changes and learned how to recognize both parents.

I tried to figure out when the hatchlings would arrive, reading encyclopedia entries and counting how many days it had been since I discovered the nest. Riding the metro to work in the morning, one arm up above my head to grasp the rail, I reached with the other arm around my body to feel which device, phone or blackberry, was fluttering with a morning message, like an expectant mother touching her tummy, and my mind flickered back to my round mama bird, and I wondered if she could feel anything scratching within her little eggs. I began to fret that something was wrong, that the eggs had slipped from the nest and the parents were living on my ledge in a state of denial, or that the eggs were simply stillborn.

And then that Saturday, peering fretfully at the nest and fearing the worst while drinking my coffee, I saw fluffy tiny feathers peeking our from under Lady Jane. And then the shift change happened, and there they were.

Teeny, tiny, downy little hatchlings. And one lonely egg, about which one had to assume the worst. They were uncovered for just a fleeting moment--you can see Dad's torso just on the other side of this picture. Silent and blinking, they spent most of their time eating from their parent's craw and filling the nest with poop.

Even tiny chicks eating looks violent and uncomfortable--not at all the delicate tender parent-child bonding experience you'd want to imagine. The mama bird looks like she's being savaged by her infants, their beaks protruding into her own, over and over, fighting each other, nipping at her. It's actually quite unsettling.
The next week, after another trip out of town and some long days at the office, I wondered if they'd still be there the next time I was home during daylight hours to see what was going on with my little nest. Sure enough they were, the chicks now big enough that they propped their mother up on their backs and looked like giant, absurd slippers.

They were cute. I found myself talking to Lady Jane Grey at odd moments, making snarky remarks about sunbathers lolling in the courtyard below, asking about her day, muttering about mine. I laid on my tummy by the window and watched the hatchlings wiggle their little wings.

And then one day they were gone. One Sunday, the hatchlings hopped out of their nest and spent most of the day on the opposite end of the window ledge, all on their own.
The next morning, all that was left was an empty nest filled with droppings.

It was not exactly heartwarming avian drama or even National Geographic-worthy nature education, but it was a little bit inspiring, a little bit comforting that my mostly empty apartment gave some shelter to a creature that needed it. I'm relieved that they're gone now--I didn't open my screen at all because I didn't want to disturb them, and then there's the dander issue. I waited for them to be born, watched them grow, saw them fly away. Now I'm just another empty nester.