Annually, robins arrive in late Spring in order to establish residence and build their nests. Not in trees, of course. Each year, without fail, robins take delight in locating maternity wards underneath my second floor deck.
The perfect spot for nest building, apparently.
In the bird’s nest real estate market, plainly, my deck is prime property: “Location, location, location,” as the professionals say.
With as many nooks and crannies as any respectable English muffin, my deck is preferable to any of the numerous nearby nest-building alternatives on offer.
So many seemingly suitable choices, in fact, that one might expect an entire flock of robins to take up residence. Surprisingly, at best two nests end up being constructed.
Prior to building homes for the little squawkers, another ritual is enacted. The robins seek to ensure a perfect absence of any predators. And so throughout the Spring they regularly beat their beaks against the many large windows my house houses.
Seeing their reflections in the glass and interpreting what they see as a competitor for my deluxe nesting real estate, they attack. Repeatedly. Vigorously. I dare say enthusiastically.
All of which makes for quite a pleasant Spring. Windexing off all that bird snot.
This year, as usual, the robins sought refuge underneath my deck. Because the deck is a full nine feet above the ground, any nest would be safe from ground-based critters.
The deck’s overhang makes access somewhat difficult for airborne predators.
If nothing else, my robins are a persistent group.
A nest went up and I knocked it down. Undeterred, a second nest was built of the customary finely tuned mixture of twigs, straw and the binding agent: mud.
Knocked that one down, too.
The speedy and efficient robins built a third nest while I was at work one day. Arriving home, one robin was sitting the nest.
OK, you win. There’s probably eggs and someone’s keeping ‘em warm.
Having no knowledge of the period required to fully “cook” the eggs, I occasionally would look up at the nest. To the great annoyance of the sitting robin who would fly off the nest, sit in a nearby tree chirping in a boy-am-I-irritated tone. Loudly. Occasionally, they would dive bomb me.
All perfectly understandable as we collectively awaited the joyous occasion: when the little peepers popped. As for the racket accompanying the process, they might as well have been children.
My yard is also home to several woodpeckers. Another story.