A brown and white speckled egg sat in the palm of a little hand in my kitchen. “Look Mom, now we can have a pet baby bird.”
The egg came from the Martin nest the birds had made under the canopy of the boatlift.
“Oh no, honey, we can’t keep the egg… it needs to be with his mommy.”
“Well, there’s still four eggs left,” he said.
Gently, I coaxed him to return the egg to the nest. Almost there – almost back… and then he dropped it, right below the nest, as egg yolk spilled on the front of the boat.
For twenty minutes, he hid under the covers of his bed, feeling sorry for what had happened.
A few days later, we were happy to see mother and daddy bird fluttering in and out of the canopy catching bugs, and dropping it into the mouths of the baby birds that had just hatched.
I decided it best not to mention the birth of the chicks to my son; but in time, he soon figured it out.
One day, he was playing in the fishing worms. “What are you doing with those?”
“I’m feeding the baby birds.”
And that is exactly what he did.
And, here’s my best shot of the babies.