A Mother's Job

She built her nest of straw and mud, anchored to the rocks on our entryway. Through the glass in the front door, we watched her as she sat up there on her eggs, allowing babies to grow. After they hatched, she hovered close, quarreling at us for coming too near. She sat motionless on the nest at night, covering them for hours with her body, warming with the spread of her wings. I think she liked that nesting part best; daylight brought endless hours of work, bringing worms for wide, hungry mouths and guarding nearby to keep danger at bay. Then came the task of teaching them to fly; an enormous effort for such a tiny mother. We watched them grow too big for the nest, crowding so their feathery butts hung over the edge, their droppings cascading down over the rocks, onto the porch below. One morning's surprise brought a view of an empty nest; the babies had flown. Mother bird returned to begin once more.* Amazed to see her back on the nest, we opened the bird book to find her, this Eastern Phoebe, who has found home in Missouri, returning each year to grace our mornings with sweet calls. *Note: Our task was to suffer the obstacle course of a ladder, extension cord, and a continuous fan on the front porch to keep baby birds from smothering in the heat, plus scrubbing the crud off the porch floor. The first two broods were okay, but, in July, the third try was a killer.