Of Finches, Forsythia and Living With Wildness

DSC00621Like many homeowners, I like to adorn my front door with a wreath of seasonal celebration: pine cones and holly for winter, something autumnal for fall.  In March, while roaming the aisle at Michael’s, I found a wreath of imitation forsythia woven through a circle of bare twigs. It spoke to me of the messy but heartening emergence of spring growth from the seeming dead of winter.

Forsythia is my favorite early, early spring flower. I used to cut sprigs to force the blooms until my cats started to make a twice-given gift of their yellowness in liquid pools on the floor, the rugs and once on the bedspread. So hanging this artificial twiggy wreath of sunny joy outside the house, where I could see it for weeks on end through the glass of my front door, seemed the better choice this year.

Another great joy of spring is bird song. The wrens, robins, titmice, and chickadees, even the raucous blue jays and crows, twittering up the early morning air create a restorative aural tonic my spirit drinks up greedily this time of year. However, the confluence of these two joyous harbingers — the forsythia door ornament and the spring vigor of the local birds — has created a dilemma. finchesA pair of tiny, extremely lively birds has begun to set up house in the bramble of the wreath on my door.

At first I thought they were merely scavenging twigs from the wreath to make a nest elsewhere. Fine with me.  Happy to provide constriction material. Plus, it was lovely to see them pop in and out so close at hand as I drank my morning coffee. They seemed not to mind my watching them and were not even bothered by my cats’ predatory stares from inside the house.

But this morning I noticed, in the now slightly denuded area at the top of the wreath, that the birds were bringing sticks to the wreath. They had hollowed out a space and were building a nest right there, under the protection of my porch, against the window of my front door.DSC00612

Taking a step back, now – from their first appearance I had been struggling to identify the birds.  I am not a birder, although I do have some favorites I can recognize instantly by sight and sound: redwing blackbirds, chickadees, robins, of course, and cardinals.  Hummingbirds and owls are rarer – the latter sometimes heard but rarely seen. But I was unsure of what these were.  My first thought was the common wren.  Both birds were brown, but the (I assumed) male had patches of red – his head, chest and at the back above the tail – visible when he spread his wings.

Definitely not a cardinal.  Too small, no crest. I thought maybe some kind of sparrow, or thrush. But I happened to have a copy of Birds of North America and so started searching. But no, sparrow was too big and no red coloring. Thrushes were also too big and robin-like. It took a while to find them, but on pages 316-17, there they were – the Red Finches.  The picture of both the male and female house finches were perfect representations of my little house guests.  DSC00609

So now that I know who my ‘squatters’ are, what to do?  Two choices, and you can probably guess what they were: move the wreath now, while there’s time for them to start a nest elsewhere, or . . . refrain from using my front door for however long the gestation and fledging timeframe is for these birds.

Okay. Yes. I know.  The first option makes the most sense. But I am seduced by the opportunity to live in such close proximity to these wild creatures. I may be foolish and courting disaster for them (and maybe heartache for me), but my comings and goings, plus the activity of the mailman and the FedEx guy seem not to have phased the pair so far. And, I have a perfectly serviceable back door which I use more often than the front door anyway.

I did have one concern.  The wreath swayed mightily in the recent late-March winds. I worried that the nest or the eggs might not survive in a storm. So while the couple was away gathering more twigs, I quickly rigged an anchoring system – plastic fishline guy-wires looped through the wreath and secured to the clasps holding the screen door in place.  My fussing seemed not to have deterred the pair.  They came right back to continue their domestic engineering project.

As I write this, the pair are zooming back and forth from yard to nest with bits of wrinkled detritus, and the female is shimmying each new twiggy addition into place with her breast and and tummy.  Quite the animated, jiggy lap dance, as the nest grows almost before my very eyes.

I’ll keep you posted on what I hope is not a naïve and arrogant human interference in this small tooth and claw circle of life.  Meanwhile, here’s some facts about house finches.

  1. They are not native to the Midwest. Some New York pet dealers imported them from California illegally as cage birds, then set them free to avoid prosecution. They quickly adapted and now can be found throughout the U.S.
  2. They mate for life – as do many birds (swans, albatross, hummingbirds, owls, to name a few).
  3. They are vegetarians.  I know!  No bugs or worms.  Just seeds.
  4. They usually nest about 10 feet from the ground in twiggy shrubs but often choose hanging planters or door wreaths!
  5. Incubation takes 12-14 days and the chicks fledge in a mere 11-19 days. So I may get my front door back by early May. However –
  6. It is not unusual for a pair to produce two or more clutches a season. So I’m planning now what to do about the wreath after the first clutch – if it’s successful.

DSC00611I know I am being selfish in wanting these creatures to be part of my life.  They are wild things – however beautiful and entertaining they may be. So I must reflect on the work of writer and poet Mary Oliver, whose skill in framing this fascination with wildness but keeping it in persepctive, is a writing touchstone for me.  Here, from my bedraggled copy of her  New and Selected Poems, Volume One, an excerpt:

Lonely, White Fields (first published in New Poems, 1991-92)

       Mary Oliver

Every night

the owl

with his wild monkey-face

calls through the black branches,

and the mice freeze

and the rabbits shiver

in the snowy fields-

and then there is the long, deep trough of silence

when he stops singing, and steps

into the air.

 

Read the full poem Lonely, White Fields Mary Oliver

 

 

 

 

 

 

Comments

  1. Cindy Einhouse says:

    I love this!

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