Nest

Spring cleaning fever set upon me in early March. Something about chartreuse buds peeking from behind the russet film of winter triggers an innate need to tidy our human nests. I scrubbed, I donated, I reorganized and folded. I turned my gaze to my little lawn, where my wrath fell upon the blight embodied by a giant rusted satellite dish.

I had no idea how to get rid of the thing myself; it was far too large and I hadn’t the proper tools to dig it up. So I posted an ad online. “Free to the first taker: scrap metal in the form of old satellite dish. Must remove it personally.” Within hours I had four replies and wondered if I should have charged people for the service. I arranged for someone to remove it while I was away from the house.

When I got home, I strode purposefully to the spot where the satellite dish had once darkened my yard. A deep hole was the only indication it had ever been there… except for a bird’s nest. Tiny naked creatures with yellow bills and bits of brown fuzz filled the nest. Anguish rose in my chest. I hadn’t even considered the time of year, the likelihood that a bird might choose the satellite dish as a safe place to lay her eggs.

I tried to leave the nest alone to entice the mother back. But when it became clear the mother wouldn’t (or couldn’t) return to the disturbed nest, I dug worms and tried to feed the birds. I fed them sugar water. I frantically telephoned animal rescue outfits within a hundred-mile radius; they all told me there was no chance of saving birds so young.

Days later, all options exhausted, my husband put the dying creatures out of their misery, tears streaming down his face. After burying the tiny bodies, we held each other, shoulders shaking, gazing at the nest and wondering why the stupid satellite dish couldn’t have waited another month.