Our willy wagtails nest has been the focus of much attention recently. Tucked away cleverly in the very corner of the roof rafters on our outdoor laundry, this tiny nest of woven cobwebs and horsehair has been housing three baby birds. ...
Well. It was.
On Saturday I went downstairs to change a load of washing, check on the ankle-biters activities in the backyard, and see if SSB wanted a cup of coffee.
And as I came back upstairs, I looked up (as is now my habit) towards the nest.
Something was hanging from the side of the little grey structure.
Too big to be a moth.
Too small to be a bat.
I looked closer.
*gasp*
Oh no. A tiny, limp, naked baby bird.
It's teeny toes tangled in some horse hair.
Unopened eyes still sightless.
Quite lifeless.
So, before the kids came up for smoko, I grabbed some tongs, climbed the ladder and gently removed the little body from the edge of the nest. The poor little barely-feathered friend.
...
The parent Willy Wagtails were chirruping at me quite busily as I performed my grim little task. And as soon as I was down from the ladder, they were noisily inspecting the nest. I felt dreadful, but hoped they would simply focus their energies on the remaining chicks. I am not sure what they would have done with the remains of the dead chick - but am certain it was better away from the surviving siblings.
...
Then Sunday morning, having discussed the "wagtail situation" with SSB, he offered to check the other chicks. I had tried to stay away from the nest to let the family settle again the previous day, but was keen to know how they were faring.
He shook his head as he came back into the kitchen.
"Only one chick," he said.
..
I was dismayed. What had happened to the second chick... perhaps it had tried to fly to coop too soon and fallen to the concrete. Perhaps Middy (the cat) had cleaned up. Who knows.
...
Then there was one.
It's still there. I checked myself.
With both parents feeding it like crazy.
I wonder if it wonders where it's brothers went?
Or if it's eyes were still closed and it has no memory of them?
I wonder if Willy Wagtails take these things in?
Or are they so bird-brained they cannot count?
I wonder if I'm the only ridiculous person worrying about such things?
...
Perhaps there's a lesson to be learned here?
Perhaps Leslie's students (who are apparently keeping an eye on the Granite Glen nest-cam) can shed some light on it for me. Failing that, David Attenborough? (C'mon, stop lurking man! Heh.)
Or perhaps it's simply this:
Mother Nature is a cruel, cruel beast sometimes.
...
(Unless both the little victims got tangled in the blinking sticky tape...
then I'm really in trouble!)
...
Signing off and handing in my Honorary Mother Nature crown...
BB
This is the tractor - it has a blade in front to push logs etc out of the way, and a grader blade attached to the back to, well, grade things. Can you tell I'm not an expert on tractors? Actually I'm not an expert on much really. I might stick that in the header for this blog, in case someone arrived here expecting sage advice on anything farm-related! 
Before climbing aboard the Orange Express to do another round of clearing and head for the 
It was a quiet drive back to the house after a big morning... with all of us silently contemplating the panorama whizzing by... the wonderful new shoots of green against the sweeping noir of the paddocks behind. And the memory of the dangerous flickering edge to the brilliant flame-orange of the flames that bring it all about.
