The third one to hop into the world took a dive from the nest, located on our side porch, and into the neighbor's peonies. The peonies probably saved its neck--it was headed straight into the brick wall. If it flew any better it would have had the loft to clear the peonies but not the neighbor's house. It'd have smacked it head on.
The robin mom and dad were apoplectic. They screamed and squawked. They attacked anything that looked remotely like a predator. They hovered for hours, obviously not trusting the capacity of their young to handle themselves in the world outside the nest. And they were right to be that way--anything could happen. Cats, dogs (it's a good thing Buster is blind and deaf--he posed no threat), bigger birds, brick walls--lethal threats lurked behind every corner and flew in the sky.
As the birds hopped around the yard, they grew further apart, driving the parents into a frenzy. The adult birds tried to corral the chicks, but they couldn't be everywhere at once, and when they paid attention to one, the other two would be moving independently, often away.
One robin--the last holdout--stretched its legs at the edge of the nest facing the peonies and wall. The chick is still there, pondering the risk. I wonder, when it launches into thin air, if the red-breasted dad will hold his breath; if the mom will cry. According to the people who study these things, only 25% of young robins survive the first year.
No wonder the parents are freaked. I know the feeling. It's a big scary world out there, and I am more than willing to build a bigger nest and continue the supply of worms.
