Wrens
Since spring began I had been listening to the angry sound of wrens scolding whenever I weeded the front garden. “Too close! Too close!” they warned. In stereo they always scolded as I pulled weeds beneath the lilac bush where the birdhouse hungs. The house had been constructed and painted by Elizabeth several years ago. Experts in such things told us wrens would never nest there as the colors were too bright. But, Elizabeth is a bold child and the colors of her choice are never neutral. Each panel was a different color: op-art in the lilac bushes. “Wrens,” those in the know had said, “prefer a domicile that blends in with the natural elements around them.”
“Actually,” I confided to the experts, “I would be satisfied if no birds ever nested there.” The house, in my estimation had already fulfilled its purpose: dispelling the deep boredom only children are at luxury to bear on a summer afternoon. It had already given my daughter a sense of purpose and creative expression. It hung in the lilac bush as a reminder of her delight in art–and, if nothing more, that was enough for me.
It seems however, that there is variation in taste even in the world of birds. No one consulted this particular pair of wrens when making pronouncements about wren housing choices. I watched with some amusement as they first explored the decorative tin bird house hanging in the oak tree by the driveway. Several flits in and out, a little dusting, trying to fit in the first twigs of nesting by the missus before she threw the twigs out the door in disgust, declaring the place utterly unsuitable. Women can be so particular when it comes to nesting! “No,” she said, “It simply will not do. Too cramped. Too deep and narrow. Too drafty for children. And too much light streams in through the cracks! How will I ever get them to nap long enough to get any work done? Will you bring home all the gnats, Jack?”
Well, no, he wouldn’t.
Faced with her objections, he went back to the bird equivalent of the MLS search engine and presented her with a new op-art option. Elizabeth’s house was much more what Missus Wren had in mind. Just deep enough, it was sheltered by lilac leaves and scented with the fragrance of their blooms. Most importantly, it was tight, admitting no rain and little light–except in the late afternoon when the last rays of sun found the door. She could work with that! They happy couple took up nest building that afternoon.
It was wonderful having these new neighbors, for in my estimation, there is nothing like the song of wrens to herald the light of dawn! As spring became summer they opened my days long before my alarm. I would lie in bed each morning listening as they sang outside my window, absorbing their gladness to be alive.
Several weeks later, I heard a chorus within as the parent birds returned to the house. Ah! The babies have hatched. The wrens stepped up their vigilance whenever I came near to water or to weed my flower garden. And, I stepped aside not willing to cause them more worry than necessary. Parenting alone is stressful enough, I know, without the threat of monsters at your door. The neighborhood hawks were threat enough. I gave the wrens the space their babies need to grow into songbirds.
So, it was with some sadness that I stooped one day to weed the garden below the lilac and noticed a sad silence above my head. “They’ve gone and they didn’t even say goodbye!” I thought.
But it seems the hawks had moved on as well. I no longer heard the “Cree-cree-cree” in the oak in my back yard as if to say, “Dinner’s on!” Hawks seemed to gloat as all the rest of the natural world drew in a breath and mourned their presence in silence. The hawk dining room was right above my deck. Blackbirds and sparrows they had snatched from the skies and dragged to the same branch in the oak several times each day. Day after day, I had watched what they ate. Magnificent, elegant birds, I found it hard to hate them. Still, I had grieved the bird silence in my backyard and the absence of birds at my feeders evidence of the threat the presence of hawks brings. I had watched chip monks and chickadees meet their maker and always hoped that wrens would prove too small to be considered a meal by a Cooper’s hawk. “Okay,” I thought, “You have to eat. Take a sparrow or a purple finch—but not the chickadees, not the goldfinches and especially not my wrens!”
But today, though the sound of wrens did not wake me, the backyard had erupted into song. “Ding dong, the hawk is gone, the hawk is gone, the hawk is gone! Ding dong the wicked old hawk is gone!” Goldfinches flitted among the bachelor buttons and chickadees returned to feast on sunflower seed. Cardinals sang, “This is my tree, my tree!” and Robins chirped their summer rain song. My all too quiet garden was once again alive with jubilant birdsong. The hawks must indeed have flown on.
And then, as I weeded lilies in the back grotto early this morning, I heard it! Wrens! Baby wrens demanding breakfast beneath the brush pile behind the shed. I saw the parent birds flit inside and the excited chorus grew. When they left, I peeked inside. Tiny, fledgling wrens: three of them, huddled together in a place safe from hawks and cats. Soon they, too, will fly away, but at least I had a chance to say good bye!
Photo credit: Marsh wren photo by Rick Leinen 2010 – 2011
