Fledgling Blues

[457 words/2 min read]

Every year there's fledglings in my patio.

This coincides with when my brain would see fit to find a partner and nest. This is sometimes strong, sometimes not so much, but always a somewhat disconcerting time. I've tried to fill it with a variety of occupations. Some trying to appeal to the bird, with fake eggs, fake nest, fake courting stories drawn and written, some to try the human equivalent, a game of dress up and dates that usually go nowhere.

And, like clockwork, hatchlings show up in my nest, technically. But they're not mine. Not my own specie even, but just close enough for a pang of familiarity. It used to be blackbirds, a quiet few with a disgruntled face. Now it's redstarts, the parents aggressively calling out my presence every time I dare enter their vicinity.

It's a strange feeling. They're not mine. A part of my brain, predatory bird, opportunist, recognizes these as easy prey, especially the redstarts with their noisy, flighty nature compared to the blackbird hatchlings, who mostly stayed still when they spotted me.

But they're still hatchlings in my nest, and I cannot help but get frustrated I cannot help. Worse, any interaction, even looking at them, signifies stressing out both the fledgling and their parents. It's like a sly mockery of the fact I cannot have my own brood. So close, yet so blatant in the fracture between us through every possible reaction.

All I can do is watch from afar. I hear them chitter and chirp still in the nest, out of reach. I catch a glimpse of them on the ground, panicking as I walked into view, and make a mental note to feed the dog inside. I quietly mourn the hatchlings that don't make it. I don't get sad, really. It's a fact of nature some die. It is more of an observation, almost a critic of the adults in my innermost self, jealousy for not being able to do it myself. I celebrate the ones who make it, too, watch them grow and learn to feed and search, watch them from the window follow their parents steps. I thrive in seeing them become a true bird, living vicariously through seeing them acquire some of the skills I feel in my blood but cannot replicate in my flesh.

I can't shake the feeling of wrongness though. They're still so differently shaped, so foreign acting. Like a coyote seeing a dachshund, there is a familiarity overrun by strangeness. Too small, too flighty. Head shape wrong, sounds wrong. Adds that disconcerting prey drive that never lets me attach myself too much.

It is bittersweet. Not mine but mine. Too far to truly recognize but too close to not notice.