Fidgety Pilgrim: Lovely Little Drama, Part I

This spring, a lovely little drama unfolded on the front porch of the house where I live. The drama usurped my attention from the end of March to the first week of May, for once turning my thoughts away from travel.

A pair of house finches found the wreath on the front door. They built a nest on it.

This in and of itself is not so dramatic, I realize. Every season, when a new wreath goes up on the front door, the birds find it. Most pull bits off to take away for their nests elsewhere. Others attempt to build nests in the lower part of the wreath.

But it is the front door, after all. We don't use it much, and frequent visitors know to use the back door; however, the mailbox is affixed just to the side. Once a day, six days a week, the mail carrier crosses from Spaniel Lady's house to the west, clumps onto the porch, and deposits our mail in the box before working his way down the street to the east.

The front of the house is primarily windows. Old windows, original to when the house was built close to one hundred years ago. Hand-blown windows that are wavy and inconsistent, set into wooden panes. The front door is similarly paned. We hang the wreath on the outer, screened, storm door. We don't use the two front rooms much, but on warm spring days we open the inside door to allow fresh air to flow through the house. The pets congregate at the door when it's open, to sniff the air and watch life go by on the street outside.

Any combination of these conditions is normally enough to prevent birds from making a permanent home on the front door. Previous attempts have ended with the birds abandoning the nests, sometimes even abandoning their eggs.

The finch pair discovered the wreath in mid-March. They fluttered around it for a couple of days, chattering and warbling to each other in their musical voices. The male liked to perch in a heroic stance on the top of the wreath. The female, ever practical, scouted out the lower curve of the wreath's 'O' shape, which is concealed from human eye level by fake flowers and greenery.

After several visits and much discussion among the two, it was decided that the wreath was the best of all local options. The female began pulling small twigs from the body of the wreath and bringing bits of straw and other materials from elsewhere to fashion her nest. Within a week of completing the nest, she began laying. By the end of March, five small pale blue-green eggs with tiny dark speckles on them were huddled at the bottom of the nest.

Once it became obvious that the pair would occupy their new-found home, I resolved that I would do what I could to give them a chance at success. I did this for the sake of the finches, but also because I was thrilled to have a chance to watch the process of a life cycle, however small, take place in front of me.

I asked family and friends to leave the inside storm door shut and stay away from the door as much as possible. We only went out for the mail when we noticed the female was already away from the nest. I took advantage of those times to carefully peek in at the eggs and take a few photos.

From my makeshift desk at the dining room table, I could keep an eye on the goings-on at the nest without attracting notice from the adult finches.

The mama bird sat on the nest continuously for close to two weeks, leaving only to chatter with her mate in a nearby tree, forage for food, and avoid the mail carrier. The male was in the area much of the time, but he never inhabited the nest.

The weekend before Easter, I noticed the mama finch moving around more on the nest, dipping her head down occasionally. It was obvious that she was moving something about. I waited until she left the nest, then stepped cautiously to the door. In the nest was a tiny bit of fuzz. And four eggs.

My thirteen- and nine-year-old nephews were visiting when the baby birds began to hatch. We watched Mama Finch, as I began to think of her, flit around as the babies broke free from their shells. We watched Papa Finch bring food to the mama and feed her as if she herself was one of the babies. By the time my nephews left on Sunday afternoon, only one egg remained to hatch.

When the last young finch hatched from its egg on the Monday before Easter, all I could see was a fuzzy pile at the bottom of the nest. The baby finches hardly looked like they were birds at all. From whichever vantage point I chose, I could not distinguish head from tail, or one baby finch from another. For close to a week, the only time I could get a decent look at them was when the adults came around to feed them. Then their wobbly little heads would pop up, beaks silently snapping open and shut. The parents regurgitated food into their mouths neatly, as though bestowing special treats upon each of them.

Then I went away for a week, to pet-sit while my best friend was away on business. Given the timing, I knew the young finches wouldn't fledge from the nest before I got back, but it would be close.