My little robins have flown! None of them are in the nest anymore. Two of them now occupy branches of a shrub under my living room window. I haven't yet located the third. The big move happened yesterday, while I was at a JaLaLa rehearsal. When I'd left, they were taking turns sitting on each others' heads in the increasingly crowded nest; when I returned several hours later, the nest was empty. At first I was worried, and when I had spotted them, I wondered if they needed rescuing. So, I did some research, and learned that, if the birds have fledged (i.e., developed the feathers necessary for flight), one must not assume they have been abandoned. Before rescuing them, it's imperative to wait and watch. The parents are probably still around, caring for their babes. And that is what is happening here. The parents are nearby, keeping watch, bringing food. Everything is happening as it should. The younguns are supposed to leave the nest, supposed to light out for the territories, and supposed to be at risk.
I am not all that pleased with the risk part. These birds have been in my consciousness for, what, four days? and I would have attacked the gardener if he bumped that tree with the lawn mower. But geez Louise, as the saying goes. How else can they (or anyone else) grow up?
Mrs. Peel also is still keeping vigil, moving from windowsill to windowsill. She and one of the adult robins have had several staredowns through the glass, with dialogue. "Cheep! Cheep!" shouts the bird. "Ack ack ack", replies the cat. Their eye contact rivals that of any cabaret singer I know. And that's some serious eye contact.
Just outside my bathroom window, the abandoned nest looks very small now. But it really should be a pilgrimage site, because so many miracles – blue eggs! hatching! feathers! flight! – happened there.