Four left their nest in a series of
hops and runs and short airborne
flings from shed to deck to fence
to branch.
There were a few stumbles and
tiny mishaps, quickly righted. One
of the youngsters accidentally
bumbled under a corner of the
deck. Anoth-
er landed
sideways on
a planter,
then sprang
away like a
grasshopper.
A third lost
its balance
on a twig
and tipped
over back-
ward like a
novice tight-
rope walker,
then stead-
ied itself
with a whir
of wings.
I watched
this burst of
activity with
a mixture
of delight
and apprehension. The baby wrens
were out in the open, performing
clumsy, attention-grabbing maneu-
vers that could easily catch the eye
of a predator. As much as I love the
Cooper’s hawks that sometimes
thrillingly dive-bomb my yard, this
was not a time I wanted to see one
of those agile hunters suddenly
appear on the scene. Just as my
The author discovered the wrens in this unlikely nesting place.
I need not have worried. After
two weeks of incubation, followed
by two more weeks of busy com-
ings and goings as the parents
ferried insects and spiders to the
basket and fecal sacs away from it,
four fully formed Bewick’s wrens
fledged
early one
glorious,
sunny
morning.
I knew
exactly
when it
happened
because I
was there,
watch-
ing from
a nearby
stump,
having
reckoned
that “this
might be
The
first tenta-
tive flight
of brand-
new Bewick’s wrens is a sight that
can bring tears to your eyes. They
are such endearing, fragile-looking
feather balls, their bright eyes tak-
ing in the great big world, their
first journey so fraught with peril.
At the coaxing of both adults,
which called frequently as if to
reassure the young, the Basket
