海角大神

Backyard bird rescue

It鈥檚 concert season. For us, that means a stroll around the block comes with an a cappella chorus of cardinals, robins, sparrows, and whoever else wants to chime in. Oak canopies set the stage for this music fest that starts after the snow has melted, and runs until the cicadas hum in late summer.

One breezy June evening, I was washing dishes and cracked open the window to listen. Right on cue, the kitchen filled with an ensemble of whistles and wheedle-wheedles to accompany the tempo beat of my pan scraping. Forget Spotify 鈥� I had Blue Jay Bach to keep me going.

But as I leaned in to chisel off a layer of fried egg spackled to the frying pan, I heard an off-key solo: vocal and persistent. A budding soprano, perhaps? No, something felt discordant, out of place. Glancing out the window, I noticed two blue jays perched on the low-hanging branches of a newly planted tree in the neighbor鈥檚 yard. One was belting it out while the other sat motionless, harmonizing softly.

A moment later, I noticed one jay still had not budged. Now, the other jay was fluttering about, picking frenetically at the branch, trying to pry something loose with its beak. Were they making a nest?

While on safari in South Africa years ago, I learned about the weaver birds. These nimble, golden-plumed architects have high standards for nest-making and thread their roosts into circular hanging baskets on the tips of branches. I once witnessed a female weaver inspect and tear a nest to shreds, much to the dismay of her mate, who had crafted an elegantly woven orb, in my opinion. 鈥淣ot good enough!鈥� she probably thought. If either mate deems that a weaver鈥檚 nest is not woven tightly, the builder must start again from scratch. Perhaps the blue jays had gotten word of this.

But when I peered closer at the tree next door, I saw the jay was snagged in string, maybe a fragment left over from the sapling鈥檚 transport and planting earlier that spring. It had likely been gathering supplies for nest-making before getting caught. I鈥檝e heard that blue jays mate for life, and the flitting friend was simply trying to rescue its mate, tugging and pulling at the twine tendrils.

I was struck by the dedication and persistence of this bird鈥檚 feathery companion 鈥� not to mention the clever tactics it employed to try to free its friend, attempting through swoops and aerial maneuvers to 鈥渦ntie鈥� the knot. The dive-bombing blue jay wasn鈥檛 giving up. When it became clear this wasn鈥檛 an easy fix, I called our neighbor, who was away, and offered to help. The local animal rescue wasn鈥檛 available, either, so now it was up to my husband and me.

鈥淏y all means, save the bird!鈥� our neighbor implored.

We grabbed a ladder and a toolbox and walked over to the tree, donning goggles and gloves for protection. We gently trimmed off the small branch holding the bird and carefully laid it, along with the jay, on the ground to examine the tangled twine.

Only a delicate cut would work. I retrieved our fine-tipped crafting scissors, used for felting and lace detailing, and we carefully snipped the string off the bird鈥檚 talon. Then we stepped back. The jay was stunned and lay motionless on the ground. We backed away farther. Then a moment later, swoosh, off it flew to join its mate. Our first bird rescue had been a success!

A few weeks later, I noticed more blue jays soaring and beetle-looping around branches in pairs. They had probably been there all along, but I started paying closer attention. I like to think our songbirds built a strong nest together, with twigs and grass instead of twine 鈥� one the weaver birds would approve of.

Nature teaches us simple lessons when we pause and look up. I was struck by the bird鈥檚 loyalty and steadfast persistence. Like the blue jays, when we get 鈥渟tuck,鈥� we can lean on a friend for help. Or just keep singing until a total stranger shows up with a ladder.