Earlier observations had given me the impression bluebirds are as meek as they are beautiful. They allowed a tiny gregarious house wren to run them out of their chosen nesting box. They come to the deck feeder only when no others are there and leave the instant another approaches. He offers a quiet murmur of a song—never pretentious or arrogant—more complacent, even timid. They seem the model for quiet contemplation when they sit long on a low branch watching for worms in the grass.
Not this morning. Again and again Sir Blue came at the squirrel, preventing its progress along a branch in the cherry tree. When the squirrel didn't give up, Madame Blue joined in the aggressive flutter and dive-bombing act until the squirrel retreated down the trunk.
I knew the Blues had a nest nearby because he's been ever-present in the yard recently, busy in the relentless search for food. I've guessed she is sitting on eggs, and he's feeding her, but I couldn't tell where.
Not long ago they gave me hope when they investigated the two corner nesting boxes nailed to pinetree trunks in the upper yard near the house. One of those pines stands right next to the cherry in question, but I supposed the Blues chose a more hidden spot when I saw no more activity there. Nobody has nested in those old boxes for years, I think because the squirrels have chewed the holes too large to be safe, but I don't know for sure. The last nesters were a family of tufted titmice several years ago.
This morning's repeated attacks on the squirrel sent me in search through the cherry tree and environs. I could find only this messy collection of leaves and sticks. I thought it belonged to a squirrel, but other than the empty birdhouse on the pinetree, there could be no other place.
