A week later she climbed the tree again and said the eggs were gone, replaced with weird-looking pink things.
"Are they cute?" I asked.
"No, Mom. Not cute at all."
From the ground we watched the parents (robins) fly to the nest carrying worms in their beaks.
A few days later, she called down that the baby birds were fluffy and feathery.
Then we went out of town. When we returned, the nest was empty.
When we were sure the robins weren't coming back, she retrieved the nest and climbed down one-handed.
When a bird weaves a nest--this clever little object--with mud, straw, and strips of plastic, I want to say it's like magic, because it happens without visible human input, and inspires a sense of wonder. But it's kind of the opposite of magic. A nest, a clutch of eggs, and then a bird family do not appear whole cloth out of thin air--they are the results of steady work, and all connected to the earth.
My children have shown me the mysterious other-ness of the natural world is everywhere. In our scruffy sub-tropical city full of untidy corners, they don't have to look hard to find it.
