Come back black­birds, you are def­i­nitely for­given by me

Let's Talk - - Postbag -

A pair of black­birds have had the au­dac­ity to build a nest in the top of my eu­ony­mus bush, only a few feet away from my kitchen win­dow.

There the ar­ro­gant male stands, pieces of twig and hairs from the white dog down the road pro­trud­ing cheek­ily from his beak, all the while do­ing a balancing act on my fence as I strug­gle to make my­self in­vis­i­ble in my own kitchen so as not to dis­turb him.

Could be he thinks I have the eas­ier life, wash­ing the new sea­son broc­coli and break­ing off as­para­gus stalks while he is obliged to col­lect build­ing ma­te­ri­als all day long.

My gar­den gate is firmly latched, even though it is a good dry as we say in Suf­folk. The fe­male is fond of us­ing it as a perch to rest from her labours or to con­verse with her part­ner.

Like Anne Frank’s fam­ily hid­ing in an at­tic in Am­s­ter­dam, who could only re­lax when the of­fice work­ers be­low had gone home, I can only bring in the wash­ing or fetch nec­es­sary tools from the gar­den shed when those who rule the roost have called it a day.

One fine morn­ing, think­ing of some­thing else, I in­ad­ver­tently shook a yel­low duster out of the kitchen door. A sharp scold­ing rep­ri­manded me of my mis­de­meanour.

Not long af­ter­wards, greatly to my sur­prise, an­other fe­male ap­peared and landed on the op­po­site side of the fence from the male. There was an in­or­di­nate shrilling and flap­ping of wings. Then all three flew away, in a flurry of God knows what. To­gether.

That was a month ago.

So now I can sit at my own gar­den ta­ble again, alone with my thoughts and my flights of imag­i­na­tion.

Black­birds can be bigamists (or even worse) and can build sev­eral nests and have sev­eral broods in one sea­son. Or could it pos­si­bly be that some­where there ex­ists a happy menage a trois and a silky nest, maybe in the hon­ey­suckle hedge or in the jas­mine trel­lis next to the pa­tio, where the white dog has her long tresses brushed out ev­ery morn­ing?

Like the de­par­ture of a trou­ble­some son or daugh­ter, the first re­lief from ag­gra­va­tion very soon gives way to some­thing else.

Could be empty nest syn­drome?

Come back my black­birds, all is for­given. JU­DITH SHARMAN Wood­bridge Suf­folk

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