The babies fittingly broke through their shells on Mother’s Day morning.  At least that’s when I first heard the tiny cheeps that sounded terribly new and fresh, the first day I also noticed the parent birds making regular food runs.

The nest is tucked up in a far corner of my “veranda” (a converted carport), a good 15 feet from the ground, so I won’t be peeking inside it as ladders are still out of the question for me and my gimpy leg.  But I can hear them asserting their presence, practicing their voices.  And I’ve started to catch glimpses of tiny round heads breaching the edge of the nest.  And I talk softly to the parents as they swoop past, or as they sometimes stop to perch hesitantly on the back of a chair to get a closer look at me and judge my character.

I am in awe of the compelling nature of this simple life playing out before me.  It is quite predictable, yet utterly captivating.

I have read that listening to birds sing and watching their graceful movements – in fact, just observing the very presence of birds around us – is somehow a genetically remembered connection.  And it brings us a deep sense of peace.  It gives us a feeling that all is right with the world.  The bond seems to be so strong and inherent, that just hearing birdsong can lower our heart rates and blood pressure and cortisol levels, and relax us in a multitude of physical and psychological and emotional ways.  They say it’s because birds only sing when everything around them is safe.  And we humans learned that fact thousands upon thousands of years ago – out on the Serengeti and in primeval forests and along river banks.  And we remember it today within our very DNA.  We know that when birds sing, we are safe.

I suspect all of nature has such secrets to share with us – to keep us grounded, reminding us to stop and just breathe (trees even give us their own breath to use).  Flowers and grasses and the earth itself are the original aroma therapies.  Oceans and rain and streams are the sounds that are always recorded and played back to us to lull us to sleep.  And yet, I suspect that it is the presence of birds that speaks to us most eloquently.

More than 45 million of us all over the world call ourselves “birders” and spend hours and years watching, waiting, compiling lists, competing against one another, capturing remarkable photographs.  I suspect many of us have at some time held the fragility of a tiny lost sparrow in our hands, felt its heart beating just a feather’s breadth away against our fingers, and then released it into the air and held our breath as it took flight again.  Perhaps we’ve witnessed the ferocity of a bluejay protecting its territory and saw undoubtedly its ghost-memory as a dinosaur.  Perhaps we have been suddenly caught and held by the intensity of a cardinal’s coloring, perhaps without even knowing that it can see more colors than our own eyes are capable of discerning.

We buy seeds and put aside pieces of our breakfast toast, keep saucers filled with fresh water, caution the cats, pick up feathers we find on the ground and save them in glass vases.  We name our sassy favorites and watch for returning bonded pairs.  And we coax the newbies into first flight as if they were our own young ones taking their first steps.

I don’t know how many tiny eggs were laid in the nest that’s snuggled up in the corner of my veranda, or how many of them cracked open to the light and life last weekend on Mother’s Day morning.  But today I put down a cushion on the ground beneath the 15-foot drop and blocked it off from curious dogs.  Just in case even one of them decides to jump too soon. 

And I’ll wait in companionable quiet, anticipating, listening, until the fledgelings are ready and begin to sing the specific song their parents will teach them.  Because as long as the birds sing, we are safe.