Truth be told, I didn't really want to do any weed-whacking this morning, but I failed to come up with a convincing excuse to avoid the annoying chore until I went to fetch the weed-whacker. There I was, kitted out in yard-work clothes, protective goggles, and earplugs, with a freshly wound reel of weed-whacker line in my pocket, a water bottle hanging from my belt loop, and a heavy rechargeable battery in my hand--stopped in my tracks by a Carolina wren.
I didn't see the wren this morning but I heard it nearby, alarmed at my incursion into its nesting site. The weed-whacker was leaning against the back wall of the recycling shed, its battery compartment filled with a new nest--and I know it's new because I removed a similar nest a few weeks ago, except it was empty. This time I found five tiny wren eggs nestled deep within the nest.
Am I willing to sacrifice five incipient wrens to my need for an orderly lawn? No I am not. I put the weed-whacker back carefully, hoping the birds wouldn't be spooked into abandoning the nest. The weeds can wait. The wrens can't.
Am I willing to let those weeds keep growing undisturbed for the next couple of weeks? No I am not. Fortunately, we have another weed-whacker, but I've never been able to start it. Since the resident he-man isn't home to start it for me, I'll just have to postpone my weed-whacking to another day.
Tragic, I know, but I think I'll get over it.
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