the robins' nest

I wrote a poem not too long ago about the bird nest on my balcony.  I wrote another poem earlier in the spring about a bird waking me up.  I laughed a little at my slowly developing theme.  Perhaps I wanted to fly far, far away?  Perhaps I just think birds are adorable?  Perhaps I should write a whole series on birds, and then go all multi-art forms and do paintings of birds?  I could make my own bird book!  I could...

You see how my mind easily gets away from me.

Below is the beginning of an update on my bird nest situation.  It's turned ugly.  Brace yourself.  Although this little snippet of the story isn't too bad.  And I do still like birds, but I've scaled back plans for the bird book.

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The robins on my balcony are deliberately pecking away at my patience and love of quiet order.  Chirp.  Chirp-chirp.  CHIRP.  They never stop their communicating and singing and being so—birdy.

Every time I step out the balcony door—no, it's worse than that.

Even if I'm just sitting in my reading nook, tucked into the corner of my living room by the windows onto the balcony, even then, the robins who have built their nest on my balcony are chirping.  If I stand up, they both fly to the railing, facing me in the windows, and have this look that makes me think that maybe they're concealing little pistols under their wings.

Are they worried I will, in one unpredictable motion, rise from my book and nook, burst through the window and terrorize their nest?  Why must they chirp like they don't trust me to behave?

I realize that I've invited them here.  I'm the one who went into spring with rhapsodic dreams of birds singing to me in the early morning.  Can you blame me, though?  I live in the Chicago suburbs; winter is quiet except for the scrape of snow plows and that muffled hush you can kind of hear when snow is falling.  

Birds singing—a part of nature being so dazzlingly loud and chipper—is an appealing idea every spring.  And with that idea in mind, I bought a pretty, unique bird feeder because I wanted to bring the birds to me.

{And they came, which you can read about in Part II. I'm like the Field of Dreams, right here in Illinois, only with birds and no baseball because I'm not all that into baseball.}