Apr 27, 2017 3 min read

I am reclining on my front porch swing and being stared down by the fattest robin I’ve ever seen. The bird is perched on a crossbar of the scaffold that has caged the house since the painting began.

“Hello,” I say, and the bird tilts its head downward. It chirps, ruffles its feathers and goes back to staring at me as it puffs out its red breast like a five-star general.

That bird is guarding the nest his mate built in the space between the porch roof and the decorative framing above it. The farmer, who notices all things nature, found the nest when he investigated all the bird activity up there on the scaffold. So far, the nest is empty and awaiting the arrival of eggs.

That nest has brought painting to a screeching, chirping halt.

The farmer had been using these warm days to paint that part of the house. As if to mess with him, the birds chose to build the nest in precisely the place he was planning to paint next.

That porch has seen all sorts of nests. Each spring the birds would build them atop the pillars, bringing sweet chirping, and an awful mess. Once, years ago, a tiny, hairless baby fell out of the nest. My kids put the doomed chick into a shoebox along with some seeds and some grass, only to find the bad news the next morning.

“It’s illegal in Pennsylvania to move an active nest,” said the farmer, citing the results of a Google search. “And even if it weren’t illegal, it’s immoral.” I wondered whether a nest still awaiting the eggs might be considered inactive, but the papa bird standing guard would suggest the arrival of the eggs is imminent.

That nest is a reminder of the building and birth that happens all around us, often without our noticing. Some people, like the farmer, see all of it – from the smallest change in the leaf pattern of a tree, to the mystery of what ate the tops off all our lilies. (The deer did it.)

On the other end of the porch is a bamboo trunk we use as a table. While on the swing last week, I swatted away a wasp and then watched as it crawled through the spaces in the trunk. When I mentioned it to the farmer, he opened the trunk and pointed out a tiny tuft of fluff attached to the underside of the lid.

“That’s the start of the nest,” he said. I would never have noticed.

I spend most nice afternoons on the porch swing, reading or writing. Lately, I’ve noticed more of nature that’s happening all around – the building and birth and death. Each day, the hosta plants surrounding the porch get taller. Just as the pink dogwoods were blooming, the azaleas dropped the last of their purple petals. One fat bunny sits in the side yard – maybe waiting for me to leave?

And always these days, there is that papa robin, watching the nest while he watches me. Without him I might not have noticed. I might have missed the sky-blue eggs and, later, the hungry pink beaks opened wide. I may climb the scaffold to have a look.

Yes, progress will have to stop for a while to allow nature to do its thing. But I suppose this house is their house, too.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.