Beauty and Brutality

IN THESE MOUNTAINS, WE live hand-in-hand with Mother Nature. I feel fortunate each time I step outside my door, like Alice going down the rabbit hole, I, too, have my own magic portal to the wild and mysterious. 

But nature is equal parts beauty and brutality. One moment we rejoice; the next our hearts are breaking. The animal friends who gather around my home often remind me of this fact.

On this day, I arrive home from running errands, my arms full of shopping bags. And just as I approach the rear porch, I spy movement: a slight fluttering in the corner. A faint but familiar tweeting. And then a blur of motion as my cat, Arwen, pounces.

In a flash, I realize what I’m seeing. “NO!” I drop my bags and lunge forward. 

Each year, for as long as I can recall, eastern phoebes have claimed my porch as their home in spring and summer. They nest in pairs, excitedly calling to one another, then raise their babies before eventually flying away. I like to think that the babies return to their ancestral home the following year because they feel safe here. They nest high, where nothing can reach them, and for the most part, my cats leave them alone. Until today.

Arwen drops the baby. She looks confused. The baby looks confused, and I’m in full-blown mother mode. I quickly scoop it up, scale porch furniture to reach the nest, and plop the baby back in.

The other two babies panic at the sight of my giant monster hand, scream in fledgling bird language, and tumble clumsily out of the nest.

My other cat, Kira, comes to see what all the fuss is about. 

Now I’m frantically trying to recover two more flopping, flailing baby birds, shoo away two semi-murderous felines, and duck for cover as the angry mama bird reappears to teach me a lesson. She shrieks and flaps around my head.

“I’m trying to help, I swear!” She seems to understand and lands on a nearby rhododendron branch to watch the rest of my hapless mission unfold. I let my cats sniff my hands and tell them, “Friend. This smell is friend.” They lose interest in the potential phoebe-nuggets Happy Meal and wander off. Mama calls to her baby, and I follow the baby’s replies. I quickly locate it and climb to the nest again.

The third baby is nowhere to be found. Mama bird returns with reinforcements; Daddy bird is with her, and they check the nest. I see them count their babies, discuss the situation, and swoop about the porch, searching. I’m stationed in an Adirondack chair just below the nest, writing this story and warding off the cats, just in case.

No doubt the third baby is hiding somewhere and will eventually respond to its parents’ calls. They’ve taken over the rescue mission for now, but I’m ready to assist when needed. Today, hopefully, the brutality of nature has been subdued. 

Emily Davis is the editor of our sister publication, Plateau, in North Carolina.