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the wren that was foraging for spiders near the garage. I have spoken to him also and doubt he heard. Wrens are wrens; a law unto themselves. If one of them decides to peck holes in the bluebird’s eggs, it will be done.
The house wren got a mate; she fashioned a deep cup within his sticks and laid two eggs. I suppose there are more now but have not checked. My wish is for the wrens and bluebirds to coexist peacefully.
Robins fill dawn and dusk with rollicking, jubilant announcements. This chorus, to which I awaken each morning, is stitched through and embellished by the low hootings of doves, the bright intricacies of cardinal songs, and the pipings of a Baltimore oriole. The house wren is a late starter but, eventually, his effervescent song joins the robins’ proclamations.
The three robin pairs long ago settled territorial disputes and feed in harmony in the great side yard that qaust contain a number of earthworms. Today I watched a robin run across the lawn, suddenly pause and look down. With a quick spear of his yellow bill, he captured the earthworm and gulped it down.
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