Though my formative years were forged amidst the rural grandeur of West Central Missouri, most of my adult life has been spent as an alien, dwelling in modern suburban communities.
I hope that once again I am cradled by fields, forests, and streams. Currently, however, for my wife and me, job locations and the practicality of short commutes have tipped the scale to logic over desire.
There are obvious benefits inherent to suburban living. I by no means cast stones at those who are completely fulfilled by such lifestyles. However, I am living proof “you can take the man out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the man.”
In the confines of my neighborhood, the “country within me” hungrily manifests itself if given the slightest opportunity. In a desert of manicured lawns, asphalt, concrete, privacy fences and automatic garage doors, I eagerly embrace whatever remnants of wild creatures that are tenacious or comfortable enough to grace my property.
Nighthawks, sharp-shinned hawks, great horned owls and foxes have all buoyed my spirits with unexpected, temporary stays at my little chunk of suburbia. These creatures are to me, an oasis of wild escape from the barren sands of domestication.
Two winters ago, a kestrel roosted every night below the gutter over our backyard deck. The beautiful little falcon became so accustomed to my wife and me that we could pass by eye to eye, at arm’s length, without alarming him into flight. This past winter we were disappointed when he did not return and we wondered about his fate.
We’ve never had to wonder about the purple finches. Early every March, they not only announce their return through their presence and buoyant song in our blue spruce, they also, to us, reinforce the fact that the official advent of spring is not far off. The seven-foot spruce affords us easy access for viewing the developing clutches.
Last year’s finches did not fare well. When I noticed a couple of days of inactivity at the tree, I investigated and saw the three tiny, featherless chicks dead in the nest. Not deterred, a mating pair was soon back with more eggs in a nest built inches below the original one.
These chicks were coming along quite nicely until an uninvited crow made his rude introduction. I witnessed the tail end of the slaughter, instinctively running outside to drive the marauding behemoth away. Too late, the damage was done. The nest was empty – plucked clean.
As I reflected upon the fragility of the lives just ended, I pondered whether or not I should have attempted to intervene in the first place. Who was I to deem young finches as more worthy of life than a hungry, survival-savvy crow?
A hardened outdoorsman, I was irritated that I had allowed emotions to creep in, compelling me to attempt to tame the very savagery so intrinsic to the natural order. I wondered if the country within me was yielding to a softer, feebler mindset.
It’s March again; the finches are back. Are these the same birds of last year...the year before? It doesn’t matter. The struggle is the same. But, I am different. I will not, in weakness, interfere. I will not eradicate the nest-building efforts of the common, sometimes loathed sparrows that have also staked claim upon the spruce.
The sparrow and finch nests are within a foot of each other and may make co-existence difficult. That’s o.k. - God’s eye is on the sparrow, too. Besides, difficulty is nothing new to the finches. Unlike so many people, finches are not hobbled or overcome by such things as past loss, devastation or current competitions.
Ten feet from the nest tree is the neighborhood sidewalk that dissects the front of my yard. It is a conduit for joggers, school children with i-pods and cell phones, mothers with toddlers in strollers, and all manner of people seeking the exercise that such a flabby, tame, suburban existence does not provide.
This year in Utopia, as people pass by the tree feeling safe, secure, and confident that no wild beast will tear and disembowel them, a few feet away, the finches are mounting yet another life or death struggle.
As the female diligently broods in concealment, the male proudly perches atop the uppermost bough of the battle zone he claims as home. His song may fall upon the deaf ears of most passers-by. And logic may dictate that his tune has not changed. But, to me, he sounds more beautiful, more soulful, and more resilient than ever.
