Finches, 2; Humans 0

In which I concede the field

Some of you may recall that there has been a difference of opinion between me and a pair of particularly sweet-voiced purple finches. Last year they chose the metal vent for a gas fireplace as the location for their nest. From their perspective it was a sensible choice: a nice roof offering cover from wind and rain, the warmth and shelter of the house at their backs, and a decent amount of protection from predators, whose ability to climb or swoop in was severely limited. From my perspective, however, it was a nightmare waiting to happen. At any moment, one careless flick of a switch and the entire family would be burned to death. The sheer horror of the possibility makes me shudder.

I spent an entire month keeping the fireplace going so it would be inhospitable to them. I felt certain that when they discovered how hot it was they would find another spot. This worked, at first. I could hear the finches on the roof nearby, seemingly constructing another nest.

But then the temperatures began to climb, and it was too hot to keep the fireplace going. I could hear the finches in the vent, and I watched them as I sat on the terrace, twittering to one another as they scouted what they firmly believed was the most desirable location in town.

So when my engineer nephew came to stay for the weekend, he thoughtfully designed and made a cage of hardware cloth. It looks nice, as if it belongs there. It fits snugly against the vent preventing the birds from going inside, and on top it has crumpled strips of the same metal mesh along the top to make it an unattractive place to roost.

What we neglected to consider is that the finches are not pigeons on a public statue. They aren’t looking for places to roost. They are looking for building sites. What they wanted was stable infrastructure, and having found it in the crumpled mesh, they immediately—and with an industry you have to admire—began using this modern foundation to build their new home before I could prevent them.

It was pouring rain when I got home from a cooking class last night, and pouring rain when I got up this morning in the gloom. I could hear the finches’ distinctive call outside the kitchen windows, but I was so confident that I needn’t worry about them I didn’t even look. In the hours since this morning’s dawn, however, they have made a fine beginning on their construction project, and they both take turns experimentally sitting on the nest as if checking to see if it’s comfortable. They sing cheerfully to one another as they work; I can hear them now as I sit in our library, whose windows look out on the terrace. The male seems perplexed by the mesh, but seems—so far, at least—to have accepted that there have been alterations to the neighborhood that are not entirely desirable. It is, perhaps, not unlike my feelings about the new construction in the village down the hill.

I will turn off the switch that powers the remote, and tape another sign over the wall switch. If it gets chilly in the next few months, I will add a blanket to the bed. I think a fitting symbol of acceptance would be to make a nicer sign and frame it in something that goes with the bedroom decor.

I have to admit, I am delighted by these two. They are an affirmation of life, and of the determination that survival requires.

Bird brains, eh?