The Flight of the Eastern Phoebe Fledglings

One of my favorite aspects of living in Vermont is the wildlife. Unlike in the suburbs, where overdevelopment has forced nature into uncomfortably close proximity with the ultimate invasive species–the homo sapiens–here, there is ample space for animals to lead a more private and peaceful existence. In the vast and uncharted woodlands behind our new house live deer and bobcats and red squirrels and groundhogs as well a host of bird species both familiar and novel.

Among the latter is the eastern phoebe: an adorable little flycatcher named for its song. Last month, a pair of phoebes took up temporary residence in an old nest in the balcony beam outside my kitchen window. The difference between the male and female phoebe is subtle: he is slightly larger with a darker, fluffier head. During nesting, he guards the territory with a series of strong, clear chirps while she builds the nest and incubates the eggs.

Thus, it was the petite soon-to-be mother with whom I became most familiar, observing her at breakfast and checking on her throughout the day. I wondered what she thought about as she sat all day long in her nest–if she thought at all or was simply aware of the world around her and the gradual growth of her speckled white eggs. When the weather was tolerable, I’d take my smoothie bowls outside and eat on the bench under her perch, speaking softly to her between bites and observing the slight wag of her abutting gray tail.

After about two weeks of inactivity, she began to leave the nest now and then to snatch bugs out of the air, which she’d return with in her beak. Although I took this as a sign that the eggs had hatched, it was another day or two before I could make out the fuzzy gray heads of her hatchlings, the fine hairs of which rose just slightly above the rounded sides of the nest. Next to become visible were the beaks; during the first week of their lives, the chicks seemed all beak; the huge orange mouths would open as if on instinct to accept the incoming fly or beetle or bee or–on occasion, and always to my amusement–moth.

By this point, both parents were taking part in the feedings, flitting from garden posts to potholders to tree branches to the arms of the bench before their spastic flights brought them back to the nest of their fast-growing young. I’d counted five chicks, which is on the upper end for a brood, and worried about the nest becoming overcrowded and one of the babies falling or–god forbid–getting pushed out. Increasingly, I was paranoid of discovering the body of an ousted nestling lying wounded or worse on the hard cement ground.

This fear was exacerbated once they became strong enough to move around on their own. They grew stumpy wings and stubby tails, and their fuzzy down thickened; their mouths no longer appeared so ridiculous and disproportional. The feedings became even more frequent, with the parents coming and going from sunrise to sundown with admirable zeal, plopping bugs into the agape mouths and removing fecal sacks–self-contained bags of bird poop–to keep the nest area as clean as possible.

The chicks began to exercise their vocal chords, and as their parents neared would throw back their heads and emit raspy screeches like a tiny gray mob demanding attention. The hilarity of this particular scenario is difficult to adequately describe in words, as is the attachment I felt toward the nestlings, who’d become like an extension of my own family. I wanted so badly for them to succeed, and with bated breath watched as they experimented with their new wings in preparation for their launch, which I rightly expected would come at any day.

On the evening of the 4th of July, I struggled to sleep amid the boom of fireworks outside my window. Fireworks are notoriously awful for wild animals, and I was concerned that the ear-shattering explosions would frighten the phoebes into leaving the nest prematurely and frustrated with humanity for once again showing a complete lack of regard for the billions of other species with whom we share this planet. Fortunately, all five chicks were accounted for the next morning as I settled into my chaise lounge to while away the hours with my new favorite form of entertainment.

Later that day, I was lying in bed listening to The Magic Mountain when my mother burst into my room to tell me that one of the phoebes had taken flight. I raced upstairs with her, and from the balcony followed her outstretched finger to the center of the yard, where, among the grass, I could just make out a small gray head and bright, beady eyes. Save for a slight bobbing of the head, the fledgling was motionless, paralyzed by uncertainty or perhaps fear. The father chirped loudly from his perch on a garden post while the mother swooped over the chick’s stationary body.

My own mother and I were at a loss for what to do, unsure if what we were witnessing was normal. The fledging appeared so small and vulnerable, but we trusted that the parents, who’d demonstrated their competency and commitment toward their chicks time again, knew what to do. Sure enough, a few minutes later the fledgling had relocated to the garden, where it teetered on the mesh fence alongside its still-chirping father. It was then that we noticed a second chick perched on the arm of the bench, wagging its stump of a tail and imitating its father’s call in its squeaky, underdeveloped voice.

A third phoebe launched that same afternoon; the final two remained in the nest overnight. I was reading in my chaise on Sunday morning when I heard a soft thump and looked up to see the fourth fledgling hovering in the air outside my window. As its sibling had the day before, it landed on the arm of the bench and looked around dazedly. Overhead, the last little bird tottered on the edge of the beam like a kid standing on a high dive, gathering up the courage to take the terrifying leap into the uncharted waters below. I’d called for my mother to come down, and together we watched as the parent flew in as if it were about to feed the chick, only to deviate to the right at the last second.

This was all the prompting the fledgling needed; down it came in an ungraceful swoop, landing on the mat outside my door and then endeavoring a second short flight onto a small glass table. My mother and I held one another, watching in silent awe and with tears in our eyes. I can’t remember the last time I’d felt so moved: the dedication of the parents, the bravery and resiliency of the babies, all of whom had successfully launched, was deeply inspiring; I felt like a proud parent as I continued to gaze amazedly between the last two fledglings, who, beckoned by a nearby chirp, both took flight around the side of the house and disappeared from sight.

In the days since, I’ve caught several glimpses of the little birds in the bordering trees and seen the parents zipping and diving through the air after insects; they’ll continue to feed their young for another week or so. Although I miss the company of the phoebes, I’m happy for them and hopeful that they’ll thrive in this increasingly manmade world. There is so much to be gained from observing and preserving nature, and it is my wish that we humans can learn to see other animals not as inferiors or nuisances but as worthy individuals who are simply trying to take care of themselves and their families just like us.