lost clutch

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Spring, in all of its fury, bursts with life. Trees. Birds. It’s a mad rush to reproduce. But it also has its share of tragedies.

An intense storm pushed through our valley last week, the trees swayed and cracked. One large limb of a tuliptree near our driveway came smashing down. The tree is in flower, and the asphalt was strewn with broken branches, leaves and Dreamsicle orange flowers. I couldn’t clean it up immediately because of the heavy rain, so I waited until the next day.

Among the debris, near the mailbox, I found the bodies to two young robins: nestlings perhaps only a few days from becoming fledglings, but because their wings were not quite fully developed, they could not escape the storm. They were at its mercy, and its mercy did not fall their way. It came to a crashing end. Oh the pathos: to have wings and be unable to use them.

As I cleaned up the scene, adult robins were moving about the area. They looked lost, or distressed, or, perhaps, I was reading more into the scene then was really there. I couldn’t help but think they were the parents of the lost clutch. After all, it was their territory. Did they feel a sense of loss? Or was it just another day in robin world? Are their lives day to day? Or can they look back with remorse?

I chose to post a photo of the tree at the top and not the carnage because the tree, in all of its fury, continues to bloom. Life goes on. The two dead birds, I buried in the leaves by the roadside.

"I am the angel of reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door."


- from the poem, "The Angel Without Doctrine" by Wallace Stevens


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