Nesting by Julie Rinard

It was standing on the concrete pathway leading to the teal front door of our house this

morning as I pulled into the driveway. Although it’s possible it was looking for something to eat, or perhaps was in search of just-so twigs for the nest he and his partner are rebuilding for the third time this spring, I swear he was waiting for me to come home.

This pair of doves has come to nest atop the archway over our front door for three years running. The first time they came, we were in the thick of COVID. They were the only guests we’d seen in months.

By now we know the routine. It goes something like this. They arrive one day in a whirlwind and in a surprisingly short period of time, amass a sordid collection of twigs and leaves, and sometimes even a few pieces of garbage or random debris. In a fervor, they pile more and more onto the thin strip of concrete above the door until they are satisfied. But invariably, the winds come, or the gardener’s leaf blower arrives, and the next morning we see the remnants of the bird’s nest scattered haphazardly in the wrought iron of the light post and down to the Welcome mat.

We lament the loss of habitat after such hard work, but reason that it is a good thing because surely now they will build a nest somewhere else where the chances

of survival for their chicks will be greater. But within days, they are back, yet again, building again, with even more gusto than before. In the case of this lovely pair, the second time seems to be a charm. They build their habitat in broad strokes, seemingly satisfied with a nest that to my human eye looks like it has been precariously hobbled together. I marvel at their capacity to arrive at imperfect completion before destruction strikes again. And then the mother settles in to do the hard work.

For weeks on end, I greet the mama each time I return from a morning walk with my dog, taking the kids to and from school, evening basketball practice, weekend trips to the grocery store while she incubates her babies underneath. Meanwhile, the father faithfully keeps watch for predators from atop the tip at the highest point of the garage roof.

Every time we mention the birds, my father scoffs. “Oh man, you gotta get those birds out of there! You should shoo them away, or place a grate over the top of your door. They’ll poop on your porch and make a big mess.”

But I have already decided I like them. I listen passively and then ignore his advice.

The first time we lost an egg, we found the fragile shell in sticky pieces on the ground, the small yolk dried, staining the walkway by the door. We mourned momentarily, and I wondered if my father had been right.

A moment later, the kids emerge with a rectangular navy blue dog bed our goldendoodle has refused to use since the day we brought him home. They place the soft cushion carefully below the nest, hoping that perhaps if the doves decide to stick around, it will be there to catch the eggs when they fall. That first year, no eggs survive.

But last summer, for the first time ever, a host of babies survive the arduous incubation. One day, they hatch. I know this because I notice the mother is gone. The nest is just high enough that I cannot easily see what’s inside. But I hear the meek chirping, and notice the dad is keeping a watchful eye from his perch. Within a few days, three babies have ventured out of the nest and are standing, wobbly legged, on the concrete

ledge. They look unsure of what to do next, and I wonder if I should bring back the navy blue dog cushion to catch them when they fall. The next day they are standing on the edge of the roof, now several feet from the nest and ledge. The following day they are gone.

This year when the birds announced their spring arrival with their usual nest-building ritual, I smile and silently communicate that I’m happy they’ve chosen to come back. A few weeks later, the mama is on her perch again, and I know new life must be brewing beneath her. I bless her, wondering if this year she will again successfully protect her young through those precarious initial weeks of life.

One afternoon, my daughter steps out onto the front porch to pick up an Amazon package and accidentally drops it with a thump. It startles the roosting mother and in a split second, the nest and egg have fallen. My daughter rushes inside, tearful and apologetic. “Mom, I scared the mama and made the nest fall. I killed the baby birds!”

I stop what I am doing in the kitchen and gather her up in my arms in a warm embrace. I stroke her forehead and hair, reassuring her, “I know you didn’t do it on purpose, sweetheart. It’s OK.”

I wonder if the dad is back today scouting out the location of the last attempt they will make at a nest for this season, or if he is just coming to say hello.