'What's that in the birdhouse hole?'
I looked up from the dishwasher. 'Er, looks like a bird to me.'
'Yes,' Marek said, 'But the parents have both come out. Is that one of the babies?'
We looked out of the kitchen window at the birdhouse on the treehouse opposite.
The head looked out further from the hole, then suddenly in a flutter of wings, it emerged and landed on one of the branches of the treehouse tree. Louise gasped. 'It came out!'
The parent birds both appeared suddenly, landing close to their fledgling and tweeting their hearts out.
Even before my gaze had shifted back to the birdhouse, another baby bird appeared, zigzagging across the garden and coming to rest in the sour cherry tree.
The parent birds were still perched on branches of the treehouse tree. Watching. One flew closer to the second baby.
Right away a third appeared. No wonder those parent birds have been flying backwards and forwards non stop for weeks now. Three mouths to feed. I know the feeling.
We watched the hole. It stayed empty for a while. Then a last tiny head appeared. It was tweeting. Imagine being the last of a nest of four. Imagine going from surrounded by feather and warm bodies to being alone in a wooden box, with just a hole of light where you parents and siblings have all flown through.
It was like the fourth baby bird was pausing to take a deep breathe. Then it too was out, landing on the railings of the tree house. Sitting, looking at the big wide world.
We've had families of birds in that box before, and marvelled at the complex beautifully constructed nests when we empty it in the winter, but never have we seen the babies leaving the nest.
What an amazing thing to witness.
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