The Nest

Just a small flight away, not a whisper from the wall, upon the fork in the brush, that can be the nest. We need a nest before the season is over, because we need hatchlings before the season is over. The nest comes first and needs to be a good nest. My mate is getting food. I shouldn’t mind the people inside as they never open the wall beyond a crack. The lady won’t have it. The man tried once, and she sang very loudly. They’re mates for three seasons now. Now, the man is breaking his nest down as he always does not a moment passed first light, before he builds a new small one for the lady.  

The lady, she moves sick, and she washes first, where the water is, one wall across. Her song isn’t good. It sounds empty. She must be very sick. She’s cleaning herself against her limbs, neck and face with that wet leaf, she’ll set it down over the edge of the puddle, pink like a robin. She’s moving back to her big nest two walls across. She’s putting the stiff white feather around her neck on that keeps her head up. 

I shouldn’t think there is any danger in nesting this close to the people. I know of them well. They are indoors a lot. The fork in the branch is too good not to nest on it. My mate rubbed against it fervently more than any other. He sang beautifully. He was very happy. His song is a trill like no others’. I’ll fly down to the watering floor soon and take some water to help with the spinning of the straw I can find in the dusty patch around the other side of the peoples’ nest.  

The man collects all the shiny rocks from that dusty patch and puts them in the shiny hollow sometimes. I shouldn’t mind, they’re too heavy for me anyway, and the straw will do well for a floor anyway, the walls can come later. 

Today, I’ll need straw, twigs, mud, moss, fur, and maybe some shreds of those big white feathers the people carry with them. The man brings the big black and white one inside each morning, the one other people leave outside his nest, they’re not his mate, but they bring it anyway for his nest. He spins through it and puts the smaller shreds in the shiny hollow. I’ll fetch some shreds from there. He’s an odd looking one. He has strange plumage under his beak and puts a big brown feather on his head whenever he steps outside. He was calling to the lady loudly last night; maybe he couldn’t find his head feather. 

They're not singing much to each other this morning. They are strange mates. She is much older than he is. She never goes outside much without him either. 

I’m a good weaver. I use twigs first. Twigs are strong. This is a difficult moment, more than any other. But the fork in the brush helps. I can hear my mate calling. My mate chose a very good place, and the magpies shouldn’t see us here. The peoples nest is very close and the wind won’t find it either. I’m happy in my weaving. When the weave is good I am happy. It’s not difficult but it takes time and we don’t have time after the season. 

There, the foundations are done. A bit of weaving and a bit of spinning and then you have a strong floor, not a whisper away from the peoples. I wonder how they weaved theirs? Probably with mud. But the man makes the nests, that is odd. I’ve never had a mate who makes nests. I can’t think of it really.  

The man cleans his floor a lot, he cleans everything, while the lady perches in her nest. She looks like she’s brooding, but I’ve never seen any hatchlings. She’s doing it right now. The man will fetch food for her like my mate does me. The man busies himself around the nest most days. Each day she just perches, watching the other people that live in the inside wall, lots of people singing in that wall all day long. It must get tiresome surely, all that singing, she doesn’t seem to mind though, sometimes she sings back with her dry shrill. 

My mate is back. He just brought me a crawly and dropped it on the floor of the nest. I’m a little angry because I don’t want to ruin the floor while I eat. But oh well, I will need food to make these walls. 

These walls of my own will not hold if a wind comes by. I need something that holds. Maybe some old spider web. I’m a very good nester. This will be my third. I make good nests, probably because I’m a good mother. I pick small feathers while I’m grooming after I make the nest and settle them on the floor. Sometimes I collect dust and weave it in as well, to make the floor soft. It’s what the hatchlings need after all. They’ll need a soft floor. Never mind that yet though, I’ll worry about the hatchlings later, I’ll make the walls strong first, with a few more twigs, those twigs from the top of the hill. It’s far, but the twigs are good, and I can’t find them anywhere else. 

I saw the lady and the man on the hill once. They had brought some small nests with them and built them on the big green patch. They perched for a long time. Even the lady had a big feather on her head too that day. Hers looked like a big big flower. She walked a little under the trees. She took a big stick with her the whole way but couldn’t decide where to make her nest. I know that feeling. It makes me angry sometimes, my mate too, when you are desperate to make a nest, but just anywhere won’t do. You need to find the best place. The lady went back to the small nests with the man and perched a while longer. It was a terrible place for a nest, completely in the middle of nowhere with no cover or anything. They are strange, but they don’t bother me any.  

Holes. That’s what, that’s where, they’ll have some old webs for weaving. There were even some right up by the people’s wall, but I think the man took those before I could get to them. He needs to make his nest too I suppose. After all, you can’t just build a nest, you must keep it strong too. He’s good at that. He’s good at a lot of things. Each night he goes to the pink puddle and grooms his beak plumage. He even grooms the lady on her head after he takes her stiff neck feather off. Sometimes he cleans her claws too when he puts them up on the soft rock. They are strange mates. 

The walls are good. I found some web and the walls are holding strong. There is some mud from the watering floor that I will spin through the straw. 

Night is falling and my nest is nearly finished. At first light, some more small weaves and spinning after the morning chorus, and I should be done. My mate is here, he is jumping and now stepping a little closer to me to roost. He has a big chest and very pretty plumage. He is a good mate. I wonder if I will see him next season? 

Now, the lady is moving to her bigger nest two walls across. She sleeps there during the night. The man is making his new nest for the night. He weaves it very well; it only has a floor though with no walls. It must be exhausting, making a new nest each night? He probably just wants to make sure it’s strong enough each time. Maybe he worries about the wind like I do. The lady is sleeping quickly, she left her big feather on, and now the man is stepping outside through the other wall, he’s singing softly into that small white rock. That rock sometimes looks like another inside wall where small people live. It’s very strange, because he doesn’t sing much to anyone else but the lady, even when he leaves the nest. But he’s singing quiet to that rock. 

They left the nest together once, and only the man returned that night. He was alone for many nights. I can’t imagine such a thing. My mate doesn’t help with building or even fixing the nest, but he’s never far away, singing, still collecting food. I thought the man’s mate must have found a better one. The man perched very still each night and didn’t watch the people on the inside wall at all. He just listened to the singing coming from the black rock he kept fixing. He was gone most days too, leaving early in the morning and coming back late at night, but he never brought any food back. I wondered if he was building a new nest somewhere else? 

When the lady and the man returned together, she had a big stick with her, and it must have been from the other nest, and maybe it was the wind that broke it. It would be a bad shame. I failed two hatchlings last season; the wind took the whole nest. I felt very sad and very disappointed, maybe my nest wasn’t strong enough. Maybe my mate from that season didn’t find a good place for the nest. But one hatched in the next nest that season. He took flight very quick. I wonder how long it takes people to fly from their nest. Maybe it’s better these people don’t hatch any. If any took flight they’d knock right into my nest, and I worked on it all season, like always. It's a very good nest, it’s strong and the wind shouldn’t take it, and it’s high enough away from pests. I shouldn’t fail hatchlings this season, it’s a very strong nest. It’s a good shape and should be big enough. 

Now, the man stopped singing to the white rock, and he is settling into his nest, but it seems he’s not happy with it, I know that feeling. He won’t stop weaving; I know that feeling too. He’s stopped, he’s looking at the wall, can he see my nest? He’s opening the wall by my nest, just a crack, but he’s not moving anymore. Does he see me? Surely not. He’s never seen me before. He’s singing a song. It has two trills, over and over he is singing it, I like it, it’s not his same song, it’s a new song, it’s pretty, does he see me? I see him from my nest, it’s only a whisper away after all.