While mowing the lawn a few weeks ago, Ryan noticed a nest of three brown spotted eggs in the tree in our backyard. We swiftly commenced our bird-watching self-education. The mother’s tell-tale orange beak indicated a family of Northern Cardinals had chosen our tree. It’s a beautiful one, full of dense bundles of branches ideal for nesting, at least according to the Northern Cardinal. According to The Cornell Lab of Ornithology’s website, All About Birds:

“A week or two before the female starts building, she starts to visit possible nest sites with the male following along. The pair call back and forth and hold nesting material in their bills as they assess each site. Nests tend to be wedged into a fork of small branches in a sapling, shrub, or vine tangle, 1-15 feet high and hidden in dense foliage.”

It’s the same branch that supports H.’s swing, so when she has pointed and said “swing” lately, I’ve explained that there are babies waiting to be born and that we need to help their mama protect their home. (Fortunately, her water table is just as enticing a draw these hot summer days.)

Last year in the other house, a mama bird nested under our deck. We noticed soon after we moved in and it felt like such a good omen—that we had chosen the same home this creature of nature had. And I felt the same this season in this house. In anticipation, I’d borrowed a bird feeder to put out from my care-taking neighbor, Carol. But the other morning, I saw a tangle of twigs beneath their home and it took several seconds for it to register—I was looking at their home, down in the grass instead of where it belonged up on high. The eggs were nowhere to be found.

“Only a few female North American songbirds sing, but the female Northern Cardinal does, and often while sitting on the nest. This may give the male information about when to bring food to the nest.”

It broke my heart to see that nest down on the ground, least of all because I’d been thinking of it as a good omen. My heart broke because I think of that mother, that father, losing their babies overnight. I think of so many parents I know now who have experienced the same thing.

My friend Charlotte, who I knew in high school but have come to truly know since her son Rhys was stillborn last year, told me something beautiful and astounding recently. That when I saw Lorenzo’s heart I saw that it was “ready to fly.” That there is “something very free about letting a heart go and fly…” I have been thinking a lot about flight as a result. For these birds, I’d like to think that they hatched and learned to fly all in one night. That upon their take-off, their eager wings knocked their safe haven, no longer needed, to the ground. Maybe. Maybe I can pretend not to know what I do of nature.

“The nest typically takes 3 to 9 days to build; the finished product is 2-3 inches tall, 4 inches across, with an inner diameter of about 3 inches. Cardinals usually don’t use their nests more than once.”

A female cardinal landed outside the window above my desk the other day. I recognize her now by that orange flash of beak against her mocha body. I also know now that the Northern Cardinal doesn’t migrate. So maybe it was the mother, staying close to the nest, in which case I recognize her in a different way. Maybe she will build another one nearby. Maybe.

When I told Carol what happened, she understood. That we can’t help but bring our stories to these sightings. That they stay with us for days. Charlotte gave birth to a daughter recently, almost exactly a year after losing her son. She named her Lark. It means songbird. Thankfully, that stays with me, too. <3