The soundscape at the winery sparkles with birdsong in the morning when I arrive. Mockingbirds, finches, acorn woodpeckers, yellow warblers, bluebirds, robins and assorted other peepers, cheepers and songsters throw their two cents into the mix.
Tiny gray and black, blunt-beaked birds pick through the cracks between the stones for insects and seeds. A tall heron occasionally strolls through the vineyard, and hawks and turkey vultures cast slowly looping shadows on the hills. Some days it's downright Snow-Whitish around here.
A pair of rosy-capped House Finches, in particular, has its nest in the joint of two beams under the eaves in front of my office window. This morning, as guests were arriving for the first tour, I could see one couple standing on the picnic bench on the patio, pointing at the nest. Three babies huddled inside, close enough that we could see them breathing. The nest seemed to be built at an angle, sloping towards us. That was when we noticed the two hatchlings on the ground below the nest.
One of the nearly-naked little babies was already a goner, but the other still gasped weakly for breath. I got a ladder while the gentleman who had spotted it held it in his hand to keep it warm.
Some of you may already have your wagging finger at the ready to scold us for touching baby birds, because everyone knows their parents won't accept them when they've been touched by a human. And you would be wrong. According to naturalist Lyanda Lynn Haupt, the author of Crow Planet (and probably many others) it's ok to quickly scoop them up and pop them back in the nest. Bird parents would rather have a live baby bird that smells funny than a dead baby bird. This doesn't mean that we should go around poking into nests and petting them, just that in an emergency, we'll likely be forgiven. (Having just finished the book yesterday, I was perhaps a bit overzealous in the encouragement of my accomplice.)
I'm ready for your second objection as well. Baby birds fall to the ground for a reason, and bird parents who can't build a proper nest for them don't deserve to reproduce. We should let nature take its course for the betterment of finches everywhere. On this count, it turns out, you may be right.
Within the hour, the poor, pathetic little thing was back on the ground. On closer examination, it appeared that the nest had been pulled or tipped out of position, its edge at a coy angle, like a lady's cloche hat. The three remaining hatchlings were clinging fiercely to the far edge, their half-bald backs pulsing with breath. And something else: they were twice the size of the two fallen young.
Holding the tiny, gasping creature in my hand, I realized that the parents were not just foolish birds who had built a faulty nest, but perhaps the intentional architects of this catastrophe. Three healthy babies, two weak ones. Without the physical strength, (or maybe even the ruthlessness) to pick the weaklings up and drop them elsewhere or push them out, they simply pulled at the nest's edge and let the rest happen as it would. And it did. The stronger siblings prevailed. I held the unfortunate thing in the warmth of my palm until I could find a small box so that at least it would have a quiet place to slip away. I heated a wet towel in the microwave and placed it in a zipper bag under the box for some warmth in the chilly office.
Defying Charles Darwin's tenets and nature's wrath, I climbed back on the ladder and tacked a few supporting twigs to the beams like a balcony railing, to keep the rest of the nest from falling completely. The three strong babies can relax their frantic grip and maybe get some rest. The finch-parents have returned to tend them without any visible fuss or dismay, and their remaining offspring may well live to breed next spring.
The warm, quiet little box sits on the desk next to mine. Inside it, the little bird is still breathing, still moving now and again, no longer gasping or writhing. This could be a sign of improvement or decline, it's hard to tell. Even if it recovers from this morning's ordeal, it is too small to survive much longer.
Having disturbed the natural course of events, I'm now left with the dilemma of what to do with it. Was it perhaps the wind, or the gropings of an unwelcome predator, that set the whole drama in motion, and not the will of wise birds? If it lives the remainder of the day, dare I slip it back into the nest?
I don't know the answer.
***
Update: Believe it or not, the little thing made it through the day and seemed to stabilize. Because it was still too weak to hold its head up to feed, I decided it was best to deliver it to the local wildlife rescue.
At the rescue desk, the veterinary nurse who accepted my little package said that they had received at least nine other little birds just as feeble and featherless that day, so it will be in good company. It's up to him/her now!
