The little eggs that the Carolina Wren laid in my hanging geranium finally hatched. Then peeped. I watched the frenetic trips into the nest with insect after insect; trips so frequent that I feared to take a peek into the nest.

In less than a week, the noisy little critters got louder, stronger. I did peek. I saw one, perhaps two glossy little backs. And then, quite abruptly on Thursday morning, a flurry of activity. Four babies left the nest for the first time.

They were so uncertain. So not-good at what would soon come so naturally. Their tiny wings and stumpy tails seemed more of a hindrance than a help as they’d flutter, land awkwardly, or cling for dear life to whatever they came close to. They’d land, call loudly from their yellow-rimmed baby bills. I’d try to get close; to move them someplace safer. Each attempt inspired another flight of three feet or so, until all four babies joined Mom, wildly calling from a brush pile. There I let them be.

The test now, for my human heart, is to accept that what happens to them next is beyond my control. An errant, neighborly lawn mower. A predatory crow or raccoon. There’s nothing I can do for them. Perhaps there never was.

I heard urgent peeping on and off all weekend. I couldn’t connect it with a source. I couldn’t tell how many voices made up the chorus. The mom did a great job. I’m hoping I’ll soon discover how gently Nature has treated the new family.

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