Their tiny chirps grew in intensity. Their beady, black eyes were wide and alert. And their bright orange throats were exposed when they stretched out their necks and begged for food from anything that got too close.
I couldn't ignore it.
We came outside sometime before lunch time to find a desolate sight: a nest lilting dangerously to the side, having dumped two of it's tiny occupants onto the grass three feet below. Strewn about the ground were feathers; many, many feathers, some obviously from a mature robin, and others that looked like goose down. And there was no sign of the once-doting parents anywhere.
There they were, two little ones clinging to the side of a nest with scrawny wings, and two others, hopping around the yard on unsteady feet, calling out for parents that either could not hear or gave up trying.
And we rescued them.
It wasn't whole-heartedly at first, but it was enough to get them all safely back into the nest, now restored to it's original angle. We kept the menacing cat that had instigated this destruction at bay with a jet of water from the hose, and waited to see if the parents would return. Hoped they would. Knew it to be unlikely.
When the minutes stretched into hours, and there was still no sign of the bright-breasted birds, we found ourselves facing a dilemma: let nature take its course and ignore their dying cries, or intervene. Honestly, I didn't know how I would be able to handle either.
It was my mom, in the end, who decided we were going to save them. She lit the fire by taking charge of the situation and finding a safer arrangement - one not perilously situated three feet above the ground. We improvised their nutritional needs by soaking dry cat food until it was a hideous, brown, and revolting mush, and fed them with an old medicine dropper.
It is odd how attached one can get to such tiny creatures, when, formerly, there was not even a hint of attachment to be found. I have never in my life concerned myself with the welfare of baby birds, never thought I would be able to identify distinct personalities in such fleeting little lives.
It is also odd to be able to hear their chirps in one's sleep. And to be able to identify by their tiny, squawky voices, who is calling for you.
I quickly discovered that each of these birds had God-given characteristics. Fledge, one of the bigger ones, could not resist the urge to get up high. He had to see. He had to be completely aware of his situations at all times, even if that meant standing on the head of one of his siblings.
Nightwing, the darkest in colour and most mature of the bunch, had the inescapable urge to fly, to try out his wings before he was really ready to commit to leaving the nest permanently. I constantly found him hopping around the yard, and always carefully ushered him back to the nest on my extended index finger.
Pip, once the runt of the bunch, who seemed so timid at first, proved to have the loudest and most obnoxious little voice. And, with extra attention from me, soon plumped up and abandoned his runt status.
And, then there was Chancho. The poor little guy cowered when anyone - at least anyone human - came near. Then, all of a sudden, what used to be fear turned into attachment. He was the most eager to jump onto a finger, the most attentive to when I would come out of the house to feed them. And, when he finally ventured to leave the nest for the first time long after his siblings had taken the great leap, he would follow me around the yard, pestering me for food.
We rescued them. Nursed them back to health. Talked to them, petted them, and named them. The kids learned so much - probably more than they even realize - about how this world works and how God created everything to behave just as it's supposed to.
The day eventually came, however, when we had to say goodbye.
Their instincts were too strong; I couldn't keep them corralled any longer. Try as I might to give them one last feeding, they eventually perched themselves out of my reach, launching themselves across the yard as soon as I'd get them back to their nest. And I new it was time to let go.
I have no idea what has come of them, now that they are out on their own and no longer have me to keep them so plump and content. I can only hope that their hunger and instincts have driven them to search for food from other sources, and to observe birds around them, to learn from them.
Fledge, Nightwing, Pip, and Chancho: you will be dearly missed. Your brief stay in our back yard brought us so much joy and memories that will last a lifetime. You taught me that, no matter how small a part of creation something might be, it is always worth caring and showing compassion towards it.
Because even God sees every sparrow that falls.
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