The Piñon Tree Is Silent

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

We had to bury one of their children today. 

Magpies mourn. And tonight, the nest outside the window is silent with grief.

It's in the piñon tree on the west side, one of the same ones they used last year. They built a condo in it then, one with a bit of a roof over it to shelter their young from ravens on the make. Their cousins built an even bigger roof over the nest in the stand of red willow to the southwest, over by the pond, after a day when I chased the ravens away repeatedly.

They are brilliant architects. Most of the time.

Over the winter, when the young were grown and foraging on their own, they abandoned the nest; it was taken over by sparrow and junco families during the snowy months. With spring's arrival and the small birds' young already fledged and on their own, the magpie family returned to set up housekeeping.

The land here is partly underwater, as it has been all week; the pond is full, the water being pumped out to areas close in where the ditch flow doesn't reach. I went to move the hose from juniper to piñon this afternoon, and found the little lost one beneath the tree.

All pink skin and sharp angled bones and bulging blind eyes yet closed, it had not a single feather on it. I'm not sure when they hatched; their mother has been talking softly to them for days now. And apparently, the little one, unable to see, fell out of the nest.

We buried it beneath the tree that is their home. Two mirror-image magpie wing feathers lay on the ground not far away, one on one side, one on the other. We marked the grave with the feathers, in hopes that the parents would recognize it for what it was. Later, I saw them searching through the grass all over the lawn, inch by inch, then furiously chasing a cousin off. One parent had mud and pitch held fast in its beak, presumably to patch up the hole; it never dropped a bit, even as its wings beat a tattoo in the air around the now-unwelcome cousin.

Magpies grieve. Terribly.

I've heard them mourn lost eggs, lost children, lost adults. It's a sound that's unforgettable, one that rips your heart out at a rate of a millimeter per note.

They trust us here, as much as it's possible for them to trust any huge, clumsy, dangerous creature with two legs and no feathers. I hope they somehow know that their little one has been taken care of properly, and that their own hearts heal.

But for tonight, the piñon tree is silent.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.