Our Bluebirds

           After five years of living in that tiny and noisy third floor apartment much too close to the airport, my wife and I finally had enough saved to escape to the country. About two miles from the nearest intersection, down a quiet rural road, our new home sat on a half-acre of partially wooded land. Our nearest neighbor was at least five football fields away—far enough that their barking dog didn’t bother us, yet near enough for us to not feel isolated.

           The view from the back kitchen window clinched our decision to buy. A hundred feet of lawn with a well weathered split-rail fence separated our property from the pasture beyond. The pasture gave way to a deep valley and in the distance a series of rolling hills. Winter was just ending, and a few crocuses had popped up. We were looking forward to a country spring, full of jonquils, tulips, apple blossoms, and redbuds.

           As we grew acquainted with our new neighborhood, we noticed many of our neighbors had bluebird houses. The town library provided information that our area was ideal for bluebirds.  Our backyard had ample morning sun, the pasture beyond provided plenty of open space, and the split-rail fence would provide a stable foundation for a birdhouse.

           The local Walmart had a good selection of birdhouses and soon our own bluebird house sat atop a pole attached to a post of the split-rail fence, seven feet off the ground with its entrance facing the morning sun. We next purchased two binoculars to give each of us a close-up view. With great anticipation we awaited our first tenants.

           We were up every morning with the sun anyway—I had a 30 minute commute to my office. But now we had something new to get up for—our bluebird house. Off to the kitchen we would go sometimes even before the wake-up alarm knowing the first thing we would do would be to look for activity at the birdhouse. Our coffee could wait.

           Towards the middle of April, our ‘first thing in the morning’ activity was rewarded with the sight of a magnificent male bluebird perched atop our birdhouse. He was joined minutes later by a smaller less brilliant female. The female entered the birdhouse but emerged quickly. The pair then flew off together. “Was that it?” we wondered.

           The pair returned the following morning, apparently deciding our new birdhouse was where they wanted to be. Soon both birds started bringing building materials to the house. A twig, then a piece of straw, then some grass. We were sure we had a nesting pair and they were setting up housekeeping.

           For about two weeks this construction activity continued. Then the female disappeared into the birdhouse. But the male stood guard, bringing food for the female. Another few weeks passed and the female emerged. Now both birds were bringing food, taking the food inside the birdhouse only to emerge with empty beaks, fly off, and bring back more.

           This frenetic activity of bringing food lasted only three days. On the morning of the fourth day our ‘first thing in the morning’ trip to the kitchen showed us six adult bluebirds sitting as pairs on the top rail of the split-rail fence, facing the pasture. They were motionless, like giant clothes pins on a clothesline.

           Minutes passed. They remained motionless. As we watched, we slowly became aware of what had happened. Our bluebird house was empty. Something had stolen their babies. Two additional pairs of bluebirds had joined our pair to console them in their time of grief. The bluebirds’ grief extended into our house—we shared their grief.

           The six birds just sat there, motionless, for 15 minutes. We watched, transfixed, unable to look away. We have no idea how long they actually sat there. They were there when we first got to the kitchen. Finally the female closest to the birdhouse leapt off the rail and flew away. Immediately the other five followed, flying off with the first as a group. Through our binoculars we watched until they became small specks, then disappeared.

           Our bluebirds did not return. Finally, after about two weeks when we finally understood they wouldn’t be back, I went out to the split-rail fence and took the bluebird house down to clean it and ready it for the next season. Inside I found a well-constructed nest and several fragments of bluebird eggshells. After cleaning, I returned the bluebird house to its pole by the fence.

           Now, three decades later, our bluebird house still sits on the pole by the split-rail fence, overlooking the pasture. Every morning the first thing we do is go to the kitchen, pick up our binoculars, and look for activity at our bluebird house. But we find none.

           For us, well, our babies, too, were born. But ours grew up. Our nest is empty now, too, but for a different, happier reason. I still think of that spring and the moment I call the ‘morning of six bluebirds’ and recall the grief we shared. How blessed we are that our neighbors never had that reason to visit.

Note to Judges: The above short story has 854 words. The first time I tried to enter this weeks Reedsy Prompts contest with this story, your word count editor declined to accept it. So I have added this note to increase the word count with the hope of getting past that gate.

Of course this is your contest and you can run it in any way you choose. In the past you have always accepted the stories that I have written. I feel the quality of this story is equal to or better than past stories I have submitted. Clearly I could have just added 146 words to the story. Doing so would have gotten it past that gate. But I feel a story has a natural length, and just adding words for some reason other than improving its impact detracts rather than adds. I have resubmitted hoping the quality of the story overcomes the length objection and it can be entered into the contest.

Sincerely,

Burton Sage