Wednesday, May 14, 2008


A blue jay recently built a platter-sized nest in the holly tree by my front door. Every time I’d walk to the car I’d try to catch a glimpse of the three newly hatched babies inside, but they always hid when they heard the door open. Not yet able to fly, they’d hop out of the nest to the branch below and wait for me to leave before hopping back in.

Today as I sat down to write I noticed the babies had relocated to a quieter tree that grows less than a foot from my office window. There is no nest here but the birds, still unable to fly, are now big enough to hang out without it. Mom Jay flies off to forage for worms and buggy treats and comes back to her children, who fluff themselves up and screech to get her attention so they can be fed first. I can relate.

When Mom Jay is off, the babies sit on their branches and scratch, feak, chirp, and even lay their weary little heads on a neighboring branch to nap. It’s killing me—as everyone knows, any action is more adorable when done by something small and fluffy. It’s cute overload here, my friends.

Sometimes when I sit down to write I set goals and rewards, just to get things rolling. It’s a juvenile system but it works for me. This morning as I watched Mom Jay do nothing but forage/feed/forage/feed, I knew what my reward would be: a trip to the sporting goods store. As soon as I get five pages written I’ll be off to buy a styrofoam container of worms from the creepy bait fridge in the back corner of Bi-Mart so I can make Mom Jay’s life a little easier for awhile.

Whatever it takes to get the pages, right?

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