May I a small house and large garden have;
Abraham Cowley, poet and essayist
And a few friends,
And many books, both true.”
A pile of cobwebs and leaves sat nestled in among the Angelonia, Lobularia (sweet alyssum), and Calibrachoa (mini petunias) in one of my window boxes. With the landscapers about the day earlier, I assumed they had blown the pile into my flower box, as my instinct is to blame them for every mess. Not on purpose, but not cognizant of their actions either.
I began to pull the mess out and as I dropped it on the ground beside me, I noticed other elements of this pile: moss, pieces of hay from my hanging baskets, and material I deduced would make a nice nest. Uh oh. Carefully I checked the flowers and did not see any eggs. I pulled the remaining nest contents from the box and dropped them to the ground.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my birds and do what I can to attract and feed them, despite their lack of gratitude. However, nesting in my planters, though inviting for them, is not something I encourage. Their exotic location choice will destroy my flowers. Therefore, I removed the bird’s hard work into a pile on the ground.
The next day, the pile dwindled, and the nest in the flower box returned. Smart bird. Its determination evident, it refused to be outdone by a human in which the bird could easily pluck out my eyeballs. I saw Hitchcock’s “The Birds” and I don’t argue with the feathered avians. But this was a battle I needed to win to save my plants. I pulled the materials out again and researched how to keep a bird out of your flowers.
I attached old, shiny earrings to a small pole (they don’t like reflective objects) and stuck it in the box. Then I tied to the tall wall fence (surrounding our trash bins) a birdhouse I had laying around since the original rope broke from a lot of rain, made sure the twine was secure, and hoped the bird would find the accommodations more suitable. (I’m afraid to tell you a couple days later after more rain the old rope broke again and the house crashed to the patio, shattering into many, many pieces. I’m so glad the bird had not made his home in it after all).
After all this, my assumption is the bird eventually found better accommodations, because I haven’t seen nest materials since.
I admire the little creatures for their determination. They act on instinct. As writers, we act on passion, emotion. But I am also stubbornly determined, obsessed you might say, to find homes for my poetry, stories, and novels. I don’t easily give up despite the roadblocks and challenges that at times feel overwhelming.
Leave it to the birds to remind us to keep moving stubbornly forward.
