A little down to feather a nest.

Well, it is a beautiful sunny morning and (seagull) Fred and his mate have just dropped by onto the deck railing as if to check in before going about their day. It is great to see them balancing along the rail and cooing to one another. The air is cool and breezy and in the distance, there are a number of hot air balloons riding the airwaves. Pretty.

Some people in the neighborhood have passed out leaflets explaining how peppermint oil liberally applied to deck rails can keep the seagulls and pigeons away… the peppermint is not agreeable to the birds. I will not be doing that. While I do not encourage the birds’ visits by feeding them, I enjoy their visits. Being on the water’s edge means there are many birds about, but it seems that only Fred and his mate visit… and ever so briefly each time. No mess, no fuss, just loveliness.

Seeing the birds busy nesting reminds me of a great story told to me by my best friend whom was a true nature-lover even at a very early age. A birder, he has enjoyed years of roaming through woods and studying birds and their nesting habits.

When still a tyke and just tall enough able to peer into a bird’s nest that was in the giant tree that overhung the deck of his top floor bedroom, he delighted in watching each day as adult birds (coal tits) engineered a new nest for their young. When the nest was finally completed, this little monkey (my friend), put his fingers into the nest to check for eggs. His height prevented him from seeing into the bottom of the nest and having no idea yet that disturbing a bird’s nest in this way ws a no-no, he had no qualms about checking the nest in this way.

What happened then stayed with him forever as one of his most fond memories and now is one of mine too. When he felt around the nest he found four small eggs. This made him smile with a deep happiness. What puzzled him though was that the nest felt incredibly soft and silky which he knew, even from his very brief experience, was an aberration. 

He plucked at a loose bit of this silk and brought it out for examination. His eyes lit up and the grin went from ear to ear. This mysterious silk was a piece of his very own dark hair! The birds had obviously gathered the clean soft clippings of his own hair that was scattered about the chair in the garden where his mother had given him a quick trim only days before. Whooping with joy, this young lad dashed to tell his mother about the birds using his own hair to feather their nest.

The great connection he felt to these birds never left him. He was of course over the moon when the tiny baby birds finally made their noisy and wobbly debut. He guarded them fiercely and with great pride, as they were after all, like his own babies.

This lovely story captured my heart and my mind. I have quietly continued the magic of this experience by collecting very short bits of hair, the clippings from my own haircuts throughout the year. I save them to spread around the woods near our home in the early spring with hopes that they too will be collected by the birds to add to the coziness of their new nests. It is a delicious thought and an almost a sacred rite of spring for me now. It makes me smile… a lot.