unhatched robin's egg

unhatched robin's egg

hidden under the grass lining

of the empty nest

On this hot, dry, windy August day, I walk over to look at the old apple tree, half dead, with black leaves on black branches, the other half struggling to stay alive, its leaves turning yellow. This is the tree that sheltered a nest with three blue eggs, and then one lone hatchling. It's been over a month since I walked away from the empty nest, feeling empty inside, the baby Robin gone too soon. Now I wonder if the nest is still there. It is. I peer inside, not expecting to find anything, but then I catch a glimpse of a tiny bit of blue peeking through the grass lining. Could it be a fragment of egg shell? Usually the mother bird disposes of any bits and pieces when the babies hatch. I push the grass aside and there, to my surprise, lies a perfect blue egg. Well, a perfect shell, but the insides are surely dried up by now. This must be one of the three original eggs, one that never hatched. Perhaps it got pushed under the lining by the lone hatchling, and went unnoticed by whatever got the baby. It is a strange feeling, finding this hidden egg, like being let in on some mysterious secret.

rain on an empty nest

rain on an empty nest –

mother robin flits and calls

for her lost baby

A couple of days ago when I passed the robin's nest, the lone nestling was hunched down in the bottom, black eyes open, a few more feathers covering its gray skin, while the mother hopped about on the lawn looking for worms and insects. Today, dark clouds clot the sky and the wind is blowing the apple tree, tossing the nest about. The mother flits from branch to branch, clucking in distress. Holding my breath, I peek inside the nest. Empty. That baby is too young to fly. Maybe it fell out and is somewhere near? One time I found a baby bird teetering around on the ground, the parents hovering in a nearby tree, chirping. My birder friend said the parents will continue to feed the baby until it can fly. Like this mother robin, I start looking around for the missing baby, searching the grass under the tree. Nothing. Fat drops of rain begin to fall and I make a dash for cover. All day long I feel restless, remembering the empty nest. All that work, for what? But life goes on. In a few days the mother will feel an urge to gather mud and grass. She will build another neat little nest, lay more beautiful blue eggs, patiently warm them through the bare spot on her breast.