Baby Robins Hidden In Plain Sight

Imagine her name is Waldo. Can you find her?

One of three that I could see.

But were there more?

Were there four?

A clutch of fledgling robins leaves the nest with scarcely a tail feather between the lot of them. Steering and landing, fluttering, feather levitations without a lick of practice is difficult; absent a proper rudder, it becomes downright comical.

Somehow none of these fledglings crash land into the marsh, managing, instead to grab on and post up in shrubs and willow trees a few feet above the water along a boardwalk path where I find one and then another, and another, each doing their very best not to be noticed, but endearingly, more than willing to utter a few, short sorrowful comments about how hungry they are to a stranger who drops to his knees and talks to them.

One of them with a very dirty face explains how good a wriggling worm feels sliding down your throat and explains that the damp earth still clinging to them tastes different than the worm but doesn’t bother him at all.

Like gravy, I think. I believe him.

The parents, both strangely calm and yet, slightly frantic strive to procure and surreptitiously deliver enough calories to each new fledgling’s location for feathers and muscles to continue growing, apace while their audacious, young recipients continue learning the elusive fundamentals of flight; short, awkward transits before some predatory bird or beast spies them deciding that, well, maybe they are a little peckish after all. Worm-fed, baby robins are an exceptionally tasty treat to some.

From my eye level position, on my knees and bent forward I cannot see the parents, but I hear them, safely distant, watching in mild concern and whistling their calming assurances that they are nearby and ready to fly in with yet another meal as soon as that human stops talking and moves along. And then, almost magically, I become invisible to my beautiful, awkward little feather pilot friend as that distant, calming voice promising another wriggling worm fills her imagination, turning her head and attentions away, magically re-freezing her into the safety of motionlessness; the mottled cloak of invisibility. Survival instincts reactivated.

Worm dreams are powerful medicine.

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