Already this year, one bird has hatched her young in these rafters. This morning I was lucky enough to espy a second one building her nest at the other end of the patio. Up and down she flits: choosing materials and then eying that high perch before flying hard to get there, set it down, move it into place, use her body and feet to adjust it just so, and then go once more. Bits fall back to the ground as she works, but there’s no hint that this annoys or flummoxes her: she simply finishes what she’s fixing and flies right back down to retrieve the twig or bit of cotton or sometimes go for an entirely different one.
I watched for several minutes, weeping for joy, and took a bad picture from inside so as not to disturb her labors. It is well over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit here every day; her mornings are likely critical to her endeavor. No photo could match the reality anyway. That she is building her home in mine is a source of utter delight. The earth is a matchless wonder, a grace to all who pass here (whether we know it or not), a place for myriad homes.