The other day I was biking up Bradford Street when I witnessed a car deliberately swerve in an attempt to hit a squirrel. There was no doubt about it. The driver threw up his hands in frustration when it was clear that he had missed. The sight rattled me. I don’t know anyone that would purposely do such a thing; people on the Cape are far from perfect, but I would expect very few among us, outside of fishing and hunting, to intentionally cause harm to a fellow creature.
But unintentional harm is another matter. How often do our actions inadvertently impact our wild neighbors? Driving is an especially dramatic example and roadkill is a constant reminder of the toll we exact. But there are other impactful activities and gardening is high on that list.
A month or so ago my wife and I bought a couple of hanging plants for our deck. I am a lackadaisical steward of our little property, more prone to just watching the birds and butterflies than actually doing any work. I noticed a charming pair of Carolina Wrens flitting around the yard and even onto the deck, sometimes carrying bits of what looked like nesting material and sometimes insects. They even visited the planters on occasion, but I just thought they were gleaning bugs. Expert that I am (in my own mind) I knew that wrens are cavity nesters, so the planters would not be in play. But just to be sure, I drew up a chair and peered into each planter. I saw nothing. It came time- actually past time- to water and I did so, plunging the hose deep into the planters until the water drained out.
The next day I watched as a wren flew up to one of the planters, perched on the rim, and then hopped in and disappeared. My heart sank. Later in the day I again hoisted myself to look in the planter. As I leveled with it, a rush of wren burst out past my astonished face. A closer inspection revealed an excavation and my fingers felt a few small smooth eggs.
Had I drowned those eggs? At this writing I do not know, but I am hopeful that I did not. There is still bird business at the planter, coming and going and perching and disappearing into its interior. I am hopeful.
But Carolina Wrens are used to this sort of thing. They regularly nest in the vicinity of human activity- even in mailboxes and on the shelves of sheds. I suppose they have somehow figured out the odds of losses due to people versus the dangers of wilder haunts.
The other thing about Carolina Wrens is that they are a somewhat pioneering species, pushing north over the last few decades from their original distribution in the southeast. Milder winters have allowed this advance, but occasional cold snaps will send their populations plummeting for a time, until there is a slow, steady march (or flight) northward again.
But populations are made of individuals. How does a bird deal with the loss of a nest, a clutch of eggs, a youngster, or a mate? How does it register with them? Wild animals do not have faces to show their grief but does that mean they do not have any? It is time to abandon the wariness of anthropomorphism and allow for the consideration of shared feelings in all living things. Animals feel pain and loss.
And perhaps the wrens have another lesson for us. They know that loss and instability constitute the regular course of Life and they ride the waves of chaos with an instinctive courage. They are realistic where we are romantic. We want every baby bunny to survive when a part of us knows that coyotes and foxes have to eat and lettuce has to grow. Humans crave stability and try to normalize everything that comes our way. We think we have managed to evade Nature’s strictures and limitations, when there is clear evidence that we have not.
Our wild brethren live in the moment. They live to continue to live, and they fight to survive. They know the world in a way we in our cities and our houses have mostly forgotten. They are there to teach us, if we will only pay attention.
The little wren in my planter tells me so.
