Robins Under the Deck — Notes from a Backyard Nesting Season

May 24th

I walked under the deck without thinking.

It is the first genuinely warm day of the season, and I’m in my garden planting — moving between house and beds in the easy rhythm of a good spring afternoon. I’ve walked under the deck, high enough that you don't have to stoop, hundred times without incident. This time, a bird explodes off a beam over my head.

The sound she makes, that urgent, frantic wingbeat of a bird startled out of feeling safe, halts me in my tracks. I look up, and there on a beam I hadn't known was even available to birds, is a nest.

As my eyes adjust I follow the beam a little further. There’s another nest, and another.

Three nests on a single ledge under our deck. Two of them appear old, emptied out by previous seasons. The third, positioned close to the stairs, is large, securely in place, and unmistakably occupied.

After an initial mix of alarm and warm delight, I stand for a moment in wonder. I had startled an unsuspecting bird from her nest. The last thing I want is for her to feel unsafe. Yet these robins, the pair I'd watched year upon year perching in the surrounding trees, landing on our fence, dropping into the yard in that particular, decisive way robins have, had chosen our deck. They had been building right here, possibly for years, on the beam I'd never noticed.

I back away quietly and leave her to settle back into calm.

She comes back. Of course she does — the nest is hers, the eggs are hers, and a startled human backing out from under a deck is not, in the end, much of a threat.

I don't go back under, and now I move differently in the surrounding area. I fox-walk, a practice learned years ago, and one I return to instinctively when the situation calls for it. 

Fox-walking — with knees gently bent, one foot steps out directly in front of the other, touches the ground on the outside edge, rolls onto the ball; then heel comes down, and finally weight shifts before the other foot lifts. No bouncing. No foot-pitch. A straight line drawn with the least sound and disturbance possible. Fully intentional. This way moves a person to slow down, to pay attention.

In previous years I lined my herb pots on the deck along the railing nearest the beam. Following my discovery, I cluster them, shift them away from the area at the top of the stairs. I don't want to disturb her when I water, nor have the runoff rain down on her nest.

I catch glimpses when I can — crouching at the far edge of the deck, I look in from the ground, careful not to linger. She’s often there, settled deep into the nest with just the top of her head visible above the rim. Still. Patient. Doing her particular work that looks, from the outside, like nothing at all.

June 6th

Something has shifted this weekend.

She sits differently now. She’s higher in the nest, more upright, no longer settled into that sunken stillness of incubation. And her mate, who had been present yet peripheral — singing from rooftops in the early morning, standing sentinel on the fence — has changed his routine, too.

He usually comes in from the southeast. I watch him from the far north corner of our yard, where I eat my lunch when the weather allows. From this spot I have a good view of the deck. He arrives with his bill full and lands on the fence. He turns his head to one side, then the other, checking the yard, checking the airspace, checking whatever a robin checks before deciding it's safe to move. Then he flies under the deck and lands somewhere out of my sightline.

It’s about forty seconds before I see him fly directly to the nest. Another twenty seconds, and he’s gone.

I can't see what happens in those twenty seconds. But I know what's in the nest, and I know what's in his bill. The math isn't difficult.

My initial assumption: the male was just feeding his mate. Holding this assumption lightly, a little research told me otherwise. When a female robin sits high in the nest, she is no longer incubating. The eggs have hatched. She is brooding now —keeping fragile, newly-arrived hatchlings warm without using the full weight of incubation. She hovers over them, rather than presses down. And the male, who kept his distance throughout the incubation period, is now taking an active role in hatchling care. He tirelessly gathers food and directly participates in feeding their young.

I can't hear the nestlings yet. They must be very young still, with voices not yet strong enough to carry. But they're present, and growing. About this, I'm certain.

Reflections

One afternoon, just as I was heading down the stairs, a robin with a bill full of food landed on the ground near the final step. The bird stood still, as though unable to move, and then made a sound. It was small, something between a call and a whimper. I understood. My presence on the stairs was a problem. His mission couldn't be completed as long as I was there.

Slowly I backed up, into the far corner of the deck, probably speaking softly. I do that, speak to birds and other animals, plants even, as though it might help. Perhaps it does in some small way, if only to signal that the voice attached to this large shape is not cause for alarm. I hadn't fully stopped moving when this bird flew under the deck.

I think it may have been her. A moment later, the second robin appeared. Before swooping under he waited, watchful, as his mate tended to their young, then cleared. They move with such intention, such quiet strategy.

What must my partner and I seem like to them? Two large creatures moving around — quietly, slowly and with care — who back away from the stairs when asked. Trust is built in small gestures, often unspoken.

When I was young, growing up in a small Ontario village, I learned something about robin fledglings in a way that stays with a person.

One spring, I noticed some spotted little birds hopping around on the lawn. Someone told me they were baby robins. They held my attention for a number of days. Then something went wrong, I never knew exactly how, but they ended up in our neighbour’s barrel of oil. Sadly, they didn't survive.

Later, I learned that young robins are out of the nest long before they are out of the woods. After fledging, baby robins spend up to two weeks on the ground while gaining their strength and learning to fly. Their two parents feed and watch over them during this time. Low shrubs and garden edges provide protection from predators. When they first begin to fly, they are very clumsy. Their world is full of dangers.

A few years ago, I found a deer mouse drowned in our garden bucket. I'd left it out for our dog, who loved drinking from it. Most likely the mouse fell from the vine above. The water wasn't deep enough for the little guy to reach the rim and the sides were too smooth and vertical. There was no way out. I still think about that mouse when I fill a bucket.

Paying attention to what we leave out in the world is living alongside, rather than, just next to. It doesn't require much. Simply developing the habit of thinking and acting a little bit beyond ourselves.

I've been thinking about the possibility that these very robins may have been nesting in this yard for three years running, possibly more. We have been here for four. Much of this time our senior dog, Deli, was in the yard — slow-moving, not much of a threat, but often making her presence known. The hot tub under our deck hasn't been used since we moved in. The cover, not solid, collects rainwater. Before these nestlings fledge — before that particular morning when the nest is suddenly quiet with emptiness — we'll make sure the water is cleared. The yard is small, lacking shrubbery for protection from predators, and surrounded by a fence that reaches all the way to the ground. Only insects, birds and cats can make their way in. Cats! The fledglings will need cover.

A gathering of hazards, and yet they choose this yard, and appear to return.

June 11th

I've been wondering, does the cool, wet weather we've been having this spring make life difficult for this robin pair? To keep her eggs warm, did she have to sit more than she otherwise would? Was she free to take her needed breaks? Did he have to work harder, having to find food for the both of them?

Today I’m continuing to keep watch, keep the space, keep quiet. I check the nest before sitting down to eat my lunch in the far corner. She’s there. While eating, he shows up. I know it’s him because, mid-flight and balancing a mouthful, he sings a brief song. He sings another as he lands. As though a cue, with this second song, she flies off. I hear small voices. After a time of quiet vigilance, he flies under. The clutch becomes silent.

With this first thin chorus of need, the season has tipped into its next chapter.