Nest-cam

Okay, so I had to go peek last evening. My sister-in-law, Carol, after reading my "On Bird Nests" blog asked, "So are there any eggs in it yet?" Duh. There is a greater purpose that simply amusing the tree-owners. So, last night, I went out to take a peek. Yep. Three beautifully tiny and amazingly blue robin eggs.

I knew not to get too close. Mama Robins aren't fond of dumb humans that leave bad scents near their flats. And sure enough, though the nest was absent a mama, I suddenly heard very put-out, obnoxious chirping from the top of the backyard fence. Suddenly having flashbacks from the horrific novel "The Birds" by Daphne du Maurier (and later the movie by Alfred Hitchcock), I ran back in behind the safety of the screen door, which, if you remember the book at all, is really no obstacle at all to the birds who multiply in number and yes, a bit ironically, try to peck the eyes out of the human house-dwellers.

Nevertheless, I went back outside to mow. Mama bird must have decided that I was fairly harmless while traipsing behind a grass-cutting device as she settled in quite contently atop her eggs. I took great care to mow a wide circle around the tree-which-bears-some-sort-of-fruity-stuff. Though the novel is fiction, I was taking no chances.

Alas, the scrapper and pseudo-photographer today could not take it anymore. Today, I had to get a picture, and I really wanted one of the protective madre, but every time I stepped outside, she flew right out to her post on the fence and squawked up a bloody storm. And she attracted friends. With "The Birds" still fresh in my oh-too-warped imagination, I finally ran up near the tree, held up my camera an arms-length above my head, aimed for the general area, and stole a shot. What WOULD we do without autofocus?

So, my profound thought on this: The mama Robin flew away every time I got close and cursed me from afar. Is this selfishness or selflessness? Was she fleeing to save herself or was she fleeing to gain the altitude necessary to dive-bomb me (or at least poo on my head) should I touch her precious gems?

Only she knows. Or some know-it-all orinthologist (I'm really not smart....I googled that for dramatic effect). Hmmm.....