In one of the pair of trees that adorn our front walkway lies a bird's nest. It's a little too high to see into, even on tiptoes, and every year it grows a little in size as each bird who occupies it adds a little to its structure. Easter grass and twine give it character, though a bird's nest is lovely in its own right, no?
Every year I look forward to seeing the mama robin in the tree as I come and go and hearing the tiny chirps of her hungry babes through our front window. Last year a robin laid two sets of eggs and each was ruined, likely by a predator. I was so bummed! This year, like clockwork, she reappeared. In the moments when she left to feed, I'd sneak a peek and take some photos. I obsessively looked for her silhouette among the branches when I got up, before bed, and everywhere in between; her presence a sign that all was well. I kept my fingers and toes crossed that the eggs were still intact. In a weird way I became invested in her future. Their future. As if somehow it related to my own. Her yearly visits, though finite, are something I'll miss very much. And somewhere along the way, a photo series was born.
I was shooting in manual, and from a distance as not to disturb their little abode, so there are depth of field and exposure issues. But I left them exactly the same as the moment they were shot. Because the imperfections are part of the story, I think. Perfectly imperfect. My story and theirs.
As this goes to press, a smaller, unidentifiable bird has taken up residence. I pulled out the ladder and took a peek: four impossibly tiny orbs in the loveliest blue color reside in the nest. Two sets of robin nestlings! In our final year. New beginnings are all around us. And happening to us. I hope they hatch in time to know that their emerging lives are off to a good start. So I can give them a proper goodbye.