the robin is first.
It makes way for the waves of dunnocks, of blue tits and sparrows and
finches of every hue.
The harlequins are dying
Like pebbles washed onto a foreign shore
The precursors of spring, the waves of birds and butterflies and bees
The waves that wash against this island in Oxford.
The waxwing that dashed itself to death against my window
The nuthatch, the firebrand, the waves of birds,
The geese that fly low, the berries that burst, the apples
Apples saving the blackbirds, the wren, the sacred wren
The nuthatch, shy of publicity and PR
The colin cook that shows up, from time to time to time;
The wheel of time, the kalachakra, the revolving of the seasons;
The Kite, the wheel, the sun and the moon and the sacred stars,
Marooned on my little island in Oxford,
The wheel turns, the apples fall, the dusty dons arise.
I FOUND the body of the little Robin fledgling in my back yard yesterday. I feel quite cut up about it.
The Robin family in the ivy haven’t lost everything – there’s at least two more little robinistic creatures flying around and cheeping the cheep that means: “Parents, bring food!”
I’m quite amazed that any fledglings make it at all. Imagine being shoved out of your house by your mum and dad who then say to you, “Now fly!”. And then they have to, or they die.
I WAS TRYING to work for TG Daily today but when I went out into my little back garden space a strange sight awaited me.
This little fledgling, probably a bit up more in intelligence than a bee, was gazing at me, wondering what was going to happen to it.
I hadn’t a clue myself – the Robin fledgling – and by the way the European Robin is way different from the American Robin – seemed to be dashing its brains in my little back area, trying to fledge.
The birds must just have fledged today. The parent were tirelessly and unceasingly trying to persuade the kids to flee the nest. Every time there was a little cheep, one of the parents came up with a tidbit to attempt to persuade it to fly.
Naturally a small mammal like me didn’t make things easier, crashing around as I did. I wish I’d videoed the sequence. Eventually the one trapped fledgling managed to get over the garden wall. But it won’t stop tweeting. Ah yes, Twitter. And twittering.
With a bit of luck, the Robin family will all fledge. There are few katz in this part of Oxford. The tigers were all killed by the ubergraduates.
Robins are way harder to rescue than bees, because relatively speaking they have higher intelligence. Probably more intelligence than humans. Must be tough to have been shoved out of the nest to make your own way in the world!
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Tagged Bangalore, bee, bees, honey bee, North Parade, Oxford, robin, Robins, Rose and Crown, tweeting, Twitter