Robin of Urban Woods

“Swallow, beautiful bird of spring

    Where do your wings take you

      Why do you fly so fast?

        So, fly to my home in Ashdarag

          And make your nest 

            Under my ancestral home’s

              Roof top”

I grew up, as an Armenian boy, with folkloric songs. Every Armenian mother, at some time, sang the “Dzidzernag” (Swallow) ballad to their sons. As a nation forced by history to be immigrants, waiting for those who left is a common theme of the sad songs mothers sing with one eye wet and the other on the road. Will my son return? And migratory birds, with their return every spring, are nature’s reminders that a son, a husband or a lover can return. Perhaps.

Swallows have a special place in the Armenian folk songs. Maybe it is their scissor-like wing span cutting through the air as if to tear the daily canvas of hopeless waiting. Perhaps it is their instinct to return to the same ancestral roof that makes them messengers of news from distant lands. But do they really return? Could it be that another bird, a look-alike, made the nest this year? It does not matter—a mother sees her son in every return.

And I have come to have special feelings about birds nesting under my roof. Last year, a North American Robin made her’s atop the front door of our home. She laid her eggs and sat patiently. 

A week later, when I opened the door in the early morning, I found her feathers all over the door entrance. A hawk had ended her motherhood.  I carefully scooped the nest and the four greenish-blue eggs from the door top, noticing how much mud she had used to stick the nest to the door-top glass. But she could not avoid the hawks of the world. 

Armenian mothers built their homes with tradition, national identity, songs and music. These were the glue, the cement and the protection from the tempests of history. They did not worry about themselves, but about their sons and husbands being taken by hawks. And almost 100 years ago, they were. More than a million of them.

… This year, another Robin made her nest, exactly on the same spot as the last one. If I had not seen the feathers on the door steps, and the empty nest I still have, I would have thought it was the same bird. Returning. As my ancestors thought they would. Returning to bless the home and perhaps bring news from the son who is now working in unknown lands. A son who would never come back.

This time, the nest had long grass stems and twigs extending almost two feet down from the nest. Like a veil my ancestors’ wives wore. 

The mom was as worried about our opening the door, our dog going out, the car being parked nearby. But, after a few days, she learned to trust us. We did not look like hawks; we did not fly near her nest. At night, we turned the lights off the hallway so her circadian cycle would not be altered.

We became expecting foster parents.

Early that morning, I could hear faint chirping when I opened the door to take the dog out.  And in two days, four chicks filled that nest with new sounds and new hopes. Yes, it was just an ordinary Robin nest. Yes, other Robins had also made their nests and laid green-blue eggs. But this one was our Robin, and now our four chicks. They were under our roof.

The next 10 days were a life movie projected at high speed. By the hour the chicks became semi-birds, then bird-like things that could extend their necks 4 inches in the air asking for a worm from tirelessly working mom. In fact, she was a single mother with 4 mouths to feed, but never complained. At least not to me.

And the nest started getting too small and the chicks too big. A few days of single-motherhood, and a male Robin showed up to help with the catching of earthworms and feeding the demanding mouths. Where did he come from? Surely not the father of these eggs. Or was he? Or perhaps there is a social support network for Robins helping single moms with the last week’s demands.  The week before chicks become birds and forget about their parents. It was delightful to see both adults feeding the chicks now covered in fuzz and eyes almost open.

And the fuzz turned to feather, and the eyes opened wide. A week into the feeding frenzy, mom decided to sleep away at night. The nest was too small for five birds, and she was probably ready for an adult’s night out. Post-partum relaxation, I thought. Perhaps with that handsome male Robin helping her with the chicks.

A couple of days later, one of the chicks, the one already testing his wings in the nest, got out of the nest and sat upon the door top, just next to the nest. Now we could see him in full—he was a junior with no tail, clumsy on his feet, but the orange feathers on his chest made him a Robin. He looked around for a while “A big world!” he should have thought. Then mom came and fed him a worm along with the other three still in the nest.

When I looked again, all four were in the nest. The curious one had decided that as long as he can fit in the nest and mom is feeding him, there was no need to work hard and be alone. I thought about our son. Our own Robin….

But the next morning, he jumped. It was that time. We all leave our nests for one reason or another. It was good to see him jump. And sit on the grass, tail-less and bewildered. He did not know what had happened. “Now what do I do?” he must have thought. But not for long. He noticed the bushes nearby and instinctively took refuge. Away from the hawks of the world.

And the next morning, another one jumped.

“Swallow, beautiful bird of spring

    Where do your wings take you

       Why do you fly so fast?”

June 23, 2013

©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013