This pesky little wren (whom I can’t help but love) made a home last year in the bird box on the east side of our mountain home. He/she built a nest, laid a batch of eggs, and best we can tell, successfully birthed a new generation of babies that grew and fledged and ultimately moved on to establish their own grownup lives in bigger, more exciting cities.

Atlanta, or Charlotte, is what I’m guessing.

The children gone, the parents nonetheless kept watch over the box, checking in, keeping claim.

Then this spring, nest building commenced again. We watched, and marveled, like always. Then we went and left them to it, heading home to South Carolina for a week or two.

We returned to the mountains to (GASP!) discover this.

A bear, Tim and I agreed, what else could have stripped the wood and left the nest box in pieces/parts on the ground below?

Oh little wren, I thought, seeing/hearing/seeing it flit about, hopping around on an old decaying log, chirping/singing/chirping the desperate sad song of its heart.

I am so very, very sorry.

HOWEVER, I REALIZE JUST NOW I have failed to mention the other, newer, more colorful birdhouse we also hung on our previous visit. It came to me as a Christmas gift from the oh-so-thoughtful Island Monettis, and we’d located it on the west side of our home, high above the mass of wild mountain azalea that blooms so profusely in early June.

And you’ve already guessed, I’ll bet. The wrens took the opportunity to relocate!

This time to the beach!

XXOO

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