The Sounds of Science, Part II

Warning: the following story contains subject matter considered offensive to people who favor cute things. Scroll to the bottom for the happy ending. Hitchcock-lovers, read on.

Another hike, another bird. Probably on a first solo flight. It fluttered clumsily from its perch to a tree limb 12 or 15 feet away. The onomatopoetic sound of a gawky little Bewick's wren during a practice flight is as you'd expect, especially if it nearly stumbles into your left ear: Lots of spluttering flaps and flops.

But it was quite another sound of science nature's near-encounter called to mind for the remainder of the hike. It was a sound that occurred almost 14 years ago in the yard of a little cottage that we'd just moved into with our two toddlers. This 100-year-old summer retreat built as an escape from San Francisco's foggy season nests in a stand of redwoods at the foot of Mt. Tamalpais in the leafy little town of Larkspur. A postage-stamp-sized forest full of ferns, dogwood, magenta rhododendrons, and camellia trees, the yard was packed with bugs and birds and woodland creatures that enchanted the kids and me day and night. One spring morning, when I was weeding around a camellia tree, I heard the squeaky little squawks of newly hatched robins in a nest just a few feet above my head. I hustled the kids over to the tree for that up-close experience with outdoor biology at the heart of the reason we'd moved there. "Watch!" I whispered to convey appropriate awe. And just as they lifted their little chins to the sky, a stringy brown mass of mucous dropped from the nest, and before I could shield their eyes, caught by its malformed head in the Y of a branch where it hung lifeless and limp.

Obviously something went horribly wrong in that nest; very likely, one of the eggs was attacked by a Stellar's Jay or an aggressive sparrow who hadn't finished lunch before the mom returned. The sound in this science story? Let's just call it the "soundlessness of science." About three long minutes of it, accompanied by dropped jaws and bulging eyes. Then the kids took off crying while I stood frozen in the stunned mute numbness of my backyard biology lab. Still, ugly is part of nature's beauty, so if this story inspires anything, how about taking part in next year's backyard bird count?

In closing and by way of an up-note, here's a little something I made out of another backyard ornithological adventure.