In July a pair of Carolina wrens built a nest in the hanging basket of red begonias by our screen porch, in between two hummingbird feeders. I watched amazed at their industrious, ceaseless labor as bit by tiny bit a cave-like nest was built by these tiny birds, piled high on top with bits of green moss gathered from under our maple trees and lined inside with the softest bits of leaves, fur, moss, and feathers.
Soon the female snugged down in the little cave, to lay three eggs and sit on them, emerging only occasionally to eat, or when we attempted to water the drying begonia. We soon stopped watering for fear of soaking the nest. The attentive male hunted for sweet bits of insect and worm for his female, and they called to each other in soft trills and song.
Eventually the eggs hatched and both partners began the business of keeping the babies fed. They began just after dawn and their strident piercing calls woke me up most mornings before the sun. Our cat, Valentine, became fascinated with this feeding ritual and sat for long hours on the porch table, watching with round green eyes, his body tensed to leap up on the screen. We often had to remove him from the porch for fear he would indeed crash through the screen. This feeding ritual continued for a couple of weeks until we could hear little cheeps coming from the nest when the babies were hungry.
One day the feeding grew intense as both male and female ceaselessly flew into the net with insects and worms. I did not realize it at the time but they were giving the nestlings a final rich meal so they could be strong enough to fledge.
The next morning, mother and father did not approach the nest to feed but rather perched or walked along the deck rail calling to their fledglings. One by one the young wrens emerged from the nest and tottered atop the mossy mound and among the begonia stems. They had feathers but were also covered with the last bits of down which looked like a halo over their heads in the morning sun. They each made their way to the edge of the pot and perched there looking down at the female “momma” on the deck rail. They fluffed their tiny wings. Their little tail feathers were about 1/2 inch long. How can they fly? I wondered. But with each one, the moment came when they jumped into the air and flew down to the deck rail. As they parents coaxed them onward, from the rail they flew to the white flowering hydrangea shrub and from there to the viburnum in the middle of our backyard flower border. I went down on the lower deck to peek over and observe all three fluttering around on the branches of the viburnum and then on the leaf covered surface of the bed where the female waited to teach them how to hunt for food.
I felt so blessed to be able to witness this fledge. How patient and nurturing the adult wrens were, encouraging and teaching their young! And the wee fledglings – what trust and courage it took to leap into the air just trusting that their bodies would know how to fly!
What a lesson in trust this fledge day is for me: that when the time comes and there is nothing else to do, I must trust enough to leap into sustaining grace. A dear friend shared this poem by Denise Levertov which illustrates this so beautifully:
"Avowal" As swimmers dare to lie face tot he sky and water bears them, as hawks rest upon air and air sustains them, so would I learn to attain freefall, and float into Creator Spirit's deep embrace, knowing no effort earns that all-surrounding grace. -Denise Levertov
“Avowal
Under A Hen's Wing 