Sometime, it’s the smaller miracles that inspire me: those thing that have repeated countless times over millions of years we take for granted, or overlook altogether.
Every year, atop one of the sconces at our front door, a mother bird builds another nest. We have no idea if it is the same bird, or one of the chicks returning, but we take comfort in knowing our home is theirs.
The first thing that strikes us is the construction. This is no slipshod array of twigs. Lacking both hands and tools, this pair creates a tight symmetrical shape in less than a week. The ragged structure below the upper ovoid is last year’s nest which my wife insisted we leave. She wanted to see if they’d use it again but, no, they prefer a clean new home for this year’s family.
A week after I spotted the eggs, three tiny hatchlings appeared: pink with blood, their eyes, dark orbs beneath transparent lids. So tiny, I marveled how she could get nourishment into them.
By the following weekend they barely fit.
I no longer complain how time flies and only wish I could.