Walking the other morning, a robin started to trail me. She flitted from tree to tree, sort of a hop-flight, just over my right shoulder. I began to sense her surveilling me after awhile as if abiding by the rules of social distancing applied to her as well. We two-stepped down the street, her leading, until we reached the corner of the woods. She settled on an upper branch to perform a song for me; a cheery whistle with a determined rhythm and rise in pitch. But there was also the bee bzzzzzzz of the blue-winged warbler in the air.

She was building a nest; first branchlets, then slender twigs, and finally scraps of fiber, torn paper and leaves. Her beak tightly clutching these materials, but from behind they trailed like ribbons in a parade. Suddenly I understood, she had been following me because I represented danger. The trees where her territory, her nesting place, her soon to be home; I had intruded.

We all build nests. Our homes large, sometimes small; some decorated lavishly, some with essentials. Like birds we have filled them with warmth and safety. Here I am at home, experiencing for the first time what I have built. Our flight has been limited and our wings temporarily clipped, but we might discover a new way of defining home. Perhaps, I will be more grateful when I have the opportunity to leave my nest again and return home to it at the end of the day.

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