June 29, 2006
Singing the bird blues
From now on, I'll leave the nature photos to the pros.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

For what I'm about to admit, please don't send me hate mail -- I already feel horrible enough, thank you.

It all began with a few twigs and some hay . . . .

A bird family built a small nest atop an outside sconce on my boyfriend's back deck, and he and I kept the light turned on low to help incubate the eggs.

All spring I chronicled the life and times of the cozy family by nosily peering over the nest with my digital camera.

My photos captured such events as sitting, hatching, feeding and growing.

Sure, I felt awkward and self-indulgent invading their privacy, but I wanted a good photo, to boot.

My digital presentation began with four small eggs, and then moved to the frail, plumply veined bodies of the two ugly babies that survived the hailstorms.

Each week the babies produced more feathers, and my photos, and ego, grew more in depth. Ansel Adams had nothing but film on me.

The parents of the offspring began to fear me, and my persistent, super-human attitude went something like this: Dude, relax; I'm just taking a photo.

Weeks and weeks went by, and here's where I begin to rationalize my behavior: I think the babies were ready to jump from the nest.

At least, I hope the babies were ready to jump from the nest, because after that one last shot I just had to have, they jumped from the nest.

My boyfriend was outside with me when it happened -- two frail birds hopping over my head -- and I screamed.

I asked him to run and grab two hand towels while I stood there screaming about what an idiot I was. He didn't deny this.

I thought we'd get them and put them in the nest before the parents returned.

Alas, the tribulations of cool conceit.

Both baby birds -- I'm choked up about this -- flew away.

I would like to believe that the parents found them in the woods and are still feeding them today.

But this past weekend, the mother bird returned to the nest alone, where she sat and stared for hours.

My boyfriend and I were sitting on the porch drinking wine when she landed. He looked at her, then at me and said, "That may be the saddest thing I've ever seen."

I'd created an empty nest syndrome; I am a failed naturalist and awful person.

Oh, birdies, wherever you are, I hope you are warm and eating well. I have some great photos to show you.