On my morning walk today I saw again the red-headed wood pecker who is making a nest in the broken maple just south of us above the Hudson River. You can't help but notice this bird because it makes a loud call just as you walk by. This is what makes me think it's nesting, perhaps protecting its territory. There is also a large hole hollowed out there, which leads me to believe the eggs are inside the tree.
I happen to love bird's nests and collect them much to my husband's chagrin. Gaston Bachelard in The Poetics of Space: The Classic Look at How We Experience Intimate Places devotes an entire chapter to nests. "A nest, like any other image of rest and quiet, is immediately associated with the image of a simple home." He speaks of nests as spaces we dream of; dream of returning to and how the image of the empty nest can fill us with longing and remorse.
Several years back a nest appeared in the overgrown honeysuckle on our front porch. It was just far off the ground to be safe from neighborhood cats, but not so far I couldn't peek in at a distance. The robin whose nest it was, was diligent and gave of warning cries if you approached. Soon enough three perfect robin blue eggs appeared within this tightly constructed engineering of twigs and mud.
Over the course of two months I was able to watch the eggs hatch and the little birds grow from blind hairless chicks, to downy young robins ready to fly. One day I looked and they were gone leaving an empty nest behind.
I happen to love bird's nests and collect them much to my husband's chagrin. Gaston Bachelard in The Poetics of Space: The Classic Look at How We Experience Intimate Places devotes an entire chapter to nests. "A nest, like any other image of rest and quiet, is immediately associated with the image of a simple home." He speaks of nests as spaces we dream of; dream of returning to and how the image of the empty nest can fill us with longing and remorse.
Several years back a nest appeared in the overgrown honeysuckle on our front porch. It was just far off the ground to be safe from neighborhood cats, but not so far I couldn't peek in at a distance. The robin whose nest it was, was diligent and gave of warning cries if you approached. Soon enough three perfect robin blue eggs appeared within this tightly constructed engineering of twigs and mud.
Over the course of two months I was able to watch the eggs hatch and the little birds grow from blind hairless chicks, to downy young robins ready to fly. One day I looked and they were gone leaving an empty nest behind.
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