Empty Nester

A scream bounced off the side of the house, disturbing a green heron roosting in the dune vegetation. It was mine.

When I’m startled, I yelp — a short high-pitched shriek. It doesn’t take much.

This time, sudden movement caught my eye near our propane tanks. Now retired, I often spend my mornings outside our Tybee Island home, garden shears in hand. It gives me time to enjoy the outdoors while letting my thoughts drift.

Our kids are grown and gone now, thriving on their own. But sometimes, amid thinking about my to-do list or how to solve that day’s NYT Connections puzzle, I miss the smell of burnt chocolate chip cookies forgotten in the oven or noisy mornings filled with shouting and slamming doors as kids rushed to get to school on time.

As I moved closer to discover what stirred at my feet, I heard weak screeching. A baby bird was hidden in the pine straw.

I crouched. The tiny bird’s entire body shook as it squawked.

“Richard!” I called out. In addition to being my groundskeeper, chauffeur, and handyman, my husband serves as wildlife rescue director. Skinks, baby possums, green anoles, snakes, birds — whatever wildlife finds its way to our doorstep, Richard is summoned by my blood-curdling scream, then frantic call.

This time, no answer.

Taking a deep breath, I peered closer. The peach-sized baby shivered. I looked around and surveyed the two propane tanks anchored into the ground against high winds and flood waters, an elevated air conditioning platform built to withstand a tidal surge four feet high, and newly planted sabal palms, staked in place until they put down roots.

There was no place for a nest.

The ground represented danger. A juvenile Cooper’s hawk with its razor talons and piercing vision often perched on our neighbor’s live oak. Rat snakes and rattlesnakes lived in the dunes. Feral cats and wild coyotes prowled the night, hunting for prey.

I snapped a photo and sent it to Richard, then went inside to find him.

Morning coffee in hand, he looked up from his phone.

“A baby bird!” he said. “Where?”

“Near the propane tanks,” I said.

We went outside and located the baby. Richard poured out his coffee. Being careful not to touch the bird, he scooted it into the empty cup and brought it inside.

Placing it gently on a towel, Richard snapped a few photos in hopes of identifying it.

We thought of the nesting birds surrounding us in the maritime vegetation: cardinals, house finches, Carolina wrens, chickadees, and painted buntings, among others.

“I think it’s a Carolina wren,” Richard said.

Richard wiggled his finger near the baby. It tried to stand on long wobbly legs but fell over. As his hand moved closer, the baby shrieked in rapid staccato chirps. When Richard pulled his hand away, the bird calmed, cheeping softly.

Because its feathers hadn’t fully grown in, Richard thought it was a hatchling, not a fledgling. I was still researching. Carolina wrens mate for life, and both the male and female take care of their offspring and the nest. If we returned it to its nest quickly, its parents might keep caring for it.

But where was the nest?

We searched under the pine straw, over and under the mechanical platform, near the back patio, and in the flowerpots. We could find no trace of a nest.

Then we heard a harsh chattering and caught a flutter of wings near the propane tank. Richard walked over and lifted the lid. A nest constructed of straw and dried grass, shaped like a snow cone, was tucked between the valves.

Richard retrieved the baby, placed it gently in its nest, then closed the lid.

A few peeps. Then silence. We stepped back and waited.

Several minutes later, a female wren flew in and sat on the propane tank enclosure. Then she tucked her body through a small hole in the side of the tank lid and disappeared.

Reunited. I high-fived Richard.

Two weeks later, I was reading in our lounge when Richard walked in.

We designed this space on the same floor as the guest bedrooms to be used for our children and visitors; however, we found ourselves here when the house was empty. With a view of the dunes and ocean just beyond, I find tranquility here — a peaceful place to read, write, or make long phone calls with my sisters. Richard also seeks quiet here, tiptoeing down in the early morning, settling into one of the goldenrod armchairs and waiting for sunrise to waken the birds.

I looked up from my book. “Guess what, Wendy?” he asked.

“What?” I replied.

“I checked on the nest again. It’s empty,” he said. “The baby must have been old enough to leave. Once they reach fledgling stage, they can fend for themselves.”

“Thank you for coming to the rescue,” I said, smiling. “For it — and for me!”

I blew him a kiss. As I turned back to my book, a photo of my kids caught my eye. My gaze lingered there for a minute.

Outside the window, the ocean breeze tousled the sea oats. And a young green heron flew over the dunes to the sun-swept island half a mile away.

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Post Note: Most baby birds people “rescue” don’t need rescuing. To read more, “I found a baby bird,” by the Cornell Lab of Ornithology is a clear guide on what to do if you discover one on the ground. For advice on kids leaving the nest, you’re on your own.

Credit: Original watercolor sketch by Kristen Englenz.

For another story about birds and humans, check out Dazed and Confused

Let me hear about your wild life adventures in comments below.