I have watched their young fledge, taking their first flight after teetering precariously on the lip of the nest, a branch, to a swirl of feathered wings and energy - airborne into the sky and over the reach and cove. They are here now.
The hummingbirds, too, are especially endearing. Ruby-throated hummingbirds return to the same feeder year after year, making their way from Maine to Latin America, and back, flying the expanse of the Gulf of Mexico in one fell swoop. If that isn't a miracle, then I don't know what is.
I have seen a fledgling leave the nest and alight on my deck as I sat inches away, its mother hovering nearby to keep an eye on her tiny offspring. That summer, I took on the role of surrogate mother to this fledgling who would come at my call, land between my thumb and forefinger, resting on the rung of the hanging tube feeder.
At first, inexperienced and yet undaunted, he sat side-saddled on the rung, twisting his neck and head to feed. In the early days, he would sit on a warm deck plank or the lip of a clay pot while I watered plants, tilting his head skyward, his throat glistening scarlet in the sun.
Often, he would rest, fall asleep, under my watchful eye, then would peep, the smallest sound you could ever hear, a sort of hummingbird snore. Afternoons, while my husband and I enjoyed a drink on the deck, watching eagles and schooners move across the reach, Peeps, as I named him, would zip in, hover inches from my face, his small black eyes looking into mine, then fly up to the feeder to eat. It was not uncommon for Peeps to land on the back of a deck chair alongside my husband and me, and just sit there as we carried on our conversation.
On this small plot in Maine, where I call home, I have had the great good fortune of caring for injured fox, a gray squirrel sans a leg and an eye, injured birds. Skunks, raccoons, deer, moose, bobcat, eagle, mink, ermine, groundhog, owls, are just a few of the gifts of nature that have graced my yard. On the morning before my husband's death, and the day before the osprey began their nest, a young bear lumbered up my porch steps in the early pink of daybreak, meeting me eye to eye.
The hospice nurse, Ginny, had just arrived, and breathless said, "Jan, there's a bear heading toward your porch!" From behind my screen door, I looked into the eyes of this magnificent creature, a mass of soft brown fur and bulk, and knew it was a gift meant solely for me - an animal totem of great strength and fortitude - one who gains wisdom after coming out of the darkened den, and into the light and promise of brighter days.
I have held tight to that promise.
So, the hummingbirds have just arrived. Their feeders are in place. The osprey are inspecting the top of the tree, most of which blew down in one of the fierce storms. They will rebuild, like the rest of us.
The crows as well, are nesting in a nearby tree. One lands on my deck and in real drama queen fashion, caws and bobs until I come out with a peanut. The chipmunk, recently out of semi-hibernation, gets on my lap and eats sunflower seeds allowing me to gently stroke its velvety fur.
Tomorrow, Mother's Day, I will step outside again. In my solitude and connection with nature and all things wild, I will allow its healing embrace to guide my day. I will think of my mother who I have not seen in well over a year, a continent away - sitting on her small spot at the edge of the Pacific - while I anchor mine along the Atlantic.
And, I will think of her, lovingly and with gratitude, as I hear the osprey shriek across the cove with fish tight in their talons, watch them fly in with sturdy moss-covered twigs and branches to rebuild their home.
Much like bridges, nests represent hope. Amidst life's turmoil, violent storms and inevitable loss, life is hatched, nurtured, and if lucky - takes flight.
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