Brave Birds

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for the dove nest
hidden in the evergreen
by our front door.
Two white eggs
in a thin, flat bed of pine needles.
That nest looked too fragile
to hold anything.

Babies hatched—tiny,
bulbous, ugly—
but I said they were cute
and I meant it.

Blessed are You
for faithful mother and father,
sitting and sitting and sitting,
then feeding and feeding and feeding.
Babies are motionless,
so much so I worry they are dead.
But they grow.
I see mama come;
babies eagerly reach into her beak,
swallowing regurgitated seeds.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for this brave bird family,
risking life in a tenuous world.
In two months—egg to independence—
they do what took me 18 years.
Squabs are now so fat they fill the nest.
When my own two babies—ages 8 and 10—
begin summer vacation,
the doves will be sporting full feathers,
cooing loudly, and finding their own dinner.
Their bravery, my invitation to life.

When I think of baby birds, I think of robins: a sturdy, deep nest full of wide-open beaks, voraciously devouring worms and bugs. This spring I’ve learned that mourning doves are sloppy nest builders, and they feed their babies crop milk and partially digested seeds. There’s a nest right outside our front door, and this front-row seat has grown in me a new awareness of the hundreds of different birds and nests and babies, near and far, all busy participating in the circle of life this Spring.