Earlier this evening, the boys and I were chillin' on a blanket on the grass in the backyard, very near the tree with the robin's nest. Mr. Robin came by with a long worm folded in his beak, but didn't go directly to his nest. He perched on the fence to scope the place out. Then he flew to the roof. Then to a rock. Then to a branch on another tree. He did this for several minutes, all while observing the funny-looking animals on the BYU blanket to see if we could be trusted. I noticed, however, that the nest was quiet. No peeping, no fuzzy heads with open beaks. And I started to worry that, despite the constant stream of worms being crammed down their throats, perhaps the chicks hadn't survived.
This creature and I studied each other for several seconds. I was surprised how round he was! I guess worms do a body good. When he didn't immediately fly away, I decided to run inside and grab my camera (and stash the basher in his swing for a minute). After taking a few shots and getting closer and closer to this fuzzy thing, I ran inside to interrupt the punk's reverie. Psssh, yeah right. He had sneaked out of bed to play with his toys in his room, like he does every night. Since we had been observing this baby's parents for a few days now, I thought he'd like to say hello to the little birdie.
He said, "Hello Baby Robin!" But Mr. and Mrs. Robin did not appreciate our cordial greeting to their offspring. They angrily chirped and flapped from the nearest tree, so I told the punk that we'd better let the baby calm down and practice flying.
I have to say, I was happy to know that the little fuzzball had parents looking out for him. It must be the mama bear in me. When I looked out the window after putting the basher in bed, the baby bird was gone.
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