We can learn a lot from birds, persistence being one of
them.
I love birdhouses and have a half-dozen of them hanging
around our property. Some are attached to poles. Some hang from trees. They
vary in shape and color. Each year I hope for a cavity nester, such as a
chickadee or house finch, to take up residence. Each year house wrens
commandeer every single dwelling. Except the bluebird boxes, which the tree
swallows occupy.
The house wren is a small, brown bird with a longish tail,
generally held at a jaunty, upward angle, and a surprisingly loud and
persistent song. His song is not the only notably persistent characteristic of
this scrappy little bird.
They are prodigious nest-builders. And they don’t like
neighbors.
The male house wren arrives in late spring here in Vermont.
I don’t honestly know if we have one highly ambitious house wren that returns
each year to occupy our yard, or several. Given how territorial they are, I’m
guessing it’s one. But over the few weeks following his (or their) arrival, the
yard fills with noisy wren-chatter, and nest building begins.
The house wren’s nest is far different from the neat,
skillfully constructed nest of the ruby-throated hummingbird, who cements his
tiny, suspended orb with silk from spider webs and then lines it with dandelion
fluff. Or the American robin, who gathers grass, string, paper, and strips of
cloth and glues them together with mud that his mate carries in her beak. She
then lines the nest with soft grass and molds it into a perfect bowl with her
body. Even the marsh wren weaves a pretty little oval house suspended between
reeds.
The typical nest of the house wren is a pile of twigs.
Without the confines of the birdhouse to bind it, the wren’s “nest” would have
no integrity at all. I know this because our Mr. Wrenly, as I’ve taken to
calling him, attempted for several weeks this summer to build a nest in our
newspaper box, probably in case another wren, or a chickadee, should view it as
an attractive nest site. Every time my husband removed the accumulated pile of
twigs, Mr. Wrenly replaced them. This bird is a paragon of persistence and not
all that concerned about perfection. This combination seems to work for him,
and I think he's on to something.
One year a pioneering chickadee built a nest in the box
outside my office. Then Mr. Wrenly arrived and declared eminent domain. I don’t
know if there were chickadee eggs or hatchlings inside when the wren
commandeered the box, but he dispatched them. Birds don’t have a sense of “fair
play.” They can’t afford to. It’s a short breeding season, their habitat and
food supplies are disappearing, cats and invasive species are increasing. It’s
tough out there for birds, and getting tougher. House wrens routinely destroy
the eggs of competitors, even other house wrens. These birds are the original
NIMBYs.
Once his pile of sticks is complete and he’s filled all the
neighborhood cavities to confuse predators and prevent neighbors from moving
in, the male house wren starts to sing for a mate. And sing. And sing. And
sing. And sing… Eventually, hopefully before we go stark, raving mad, one shows
up. House wrens are polygynous, so this is unlikely a mate from a precious
season. (Some species of wrens are monogamous.)
He's not all that choosy about a mate, but she is. She
assesses his architectural prowess and melodic proposal. If she accepts, they
consummate the deal. She then adds a bit of hair, feathers, and plant fibers to
the base of the pile of twigs and lays eggs.
I can easily keep an eye on the birdhouse outside my office
window, and it’s a marvel to watch the parental care, as they fly off in search
of food for the hatchlings, delivering a fat caterpillar or the like every ten
minutes or so. They grab a fecal sac from the nest and sail off again in a
ceaseless cycle all day long. Baby wrens, like their fathers, are very vocal.
Their nearly constant chatter reaches a fevered pitch when a parent returns
with food, which is, as I’ve said, about every ten minutes all day long.
Once the baby wrens fledge, it is Mrs. Wrenly who keeps a
careful eye on their unpracticed flying and feeds them for another few weeks.
Because Mr. Wrenly has other matters on his mind: restocking the twig pile and
singing for a new mate. His persistence is unhampered by a need for perfection.
He's a doer.
There is much to admire about the persistence and
single-mindedness of this Napoleonic bird with a spirit so out of proportion to
its size. The male’s determination to commandeer every cavity in the yard and
his unquenchable need to colonize and procreate, make me feel something of a slacker
as my latest writing project goes unheeded, the garden untended, the
administrivia of my life unmanaged, and I really should get some exercise...
Maybe I should care less about perfection: the need to craft
the perfect sentence, to raise flawless vegetables, to attain Olympic greatness
in my workouts. Maybe I will lower the bar a bit, be more persistent. And sing
more.