On Friday morning, I looked down from our upstairs porch and cursed the hawks.
For about a year now, they have had a huge nest in the tree right next to the house — and they have “feathered” it with all sorts of garbage, particularly dirty pieces of cloth and scraps of paper. They regularly redecorate by pushing some of their treasures out over the side.
Whenever I look up, I take in the sight of what looks like someone’s old underwear lapped over a branch.
This appeared to be the worst yet — chips of styrofoam (?) all over the ground. They really were flying pigs.
A closer inspection, however, revealed that I had to take it all back.
Thousands of tiny, tiny white mushrooms were in the grass and the planting bed.
Below, the white grains under the mushrooms are yet more mushrooms.
Sorry, hawks. . . until next time.
Petit à petit, l’oiseau fait son nid
In more news from the same tree, the weaver birds and their amazing basket nests are back.
The yellow-colored males have been building and re-building for several weeks now, chattering loudly as they work. According to a guidebook, the males weave and the females inspect (and destroy any subpar work).
(There are much nicer photos of last year’s nests here.)
I guess the girls — who are plain brown — were finally satisfied, because it recently got much quieter up there. Then, a few days ago, I started finding halves of eggshells on the grass under the tree.
Here’s my collection so far.
There are birds here,
so many birds here
is what I was trying to say
when they said those birds were metaphors
for what is trapped
between buildings
and buildings. . .— Jamaal May, from “There Are Birds Here“
enclos*ure 