Northern mockingbirds build their nests as low as three feet from the ground. Usually in trees, but on the Cedar Ridge farm, there is one tucked inside the cage of a large tomato plant. A couple of weeks ago we noticed four speckled blue eggs, which have now been replaced by sleepy bundles of feathers. The mother or father bird is always on duty: aggressively patrolling the area, screeching belligerent warnings whenever someone approaches. As I watered the neighboring plants today, it swooped close enough to brush my shoulder with its wing.
Atticus Finch said it is a sin to kill a mockingbird, but the bird’s angry stare from two feet away clearly warns that it has no such reservations towards me. Mockingbirds are known to have attacked both hawks and humans, and have the ability to recognize human individuals who have previously intruded on their territory.
I wish I could tell it that my intentions are good. That the water I bring will keep the plant strong and the nest safely hidden. That picking the fruit from the upper branches will prevent potential injuries to the babies below. But the anxious bird doesn’t understand what I’m doing and needlessly fears the worse.
Maybe it is not so different from the rest of us.