The Unmade Bed

Within spitting distance of my bedroom window, there stands probably the scrawniest pine tree in the entire country. Intending to be an evergreen, the branches are thin and scant and the needles are few and far between. Had it been left to me, I would probably have pensioned it off and put it out of its misery many years ago, and replaced it with a more vibrant specimen. However, we live graciously with our retirees and largely let nature take its course. I mention this tree, since an ambitious Magpie took an interest in it recently. I don’t generally spend my days staring out of the window, but this particular fellow craved my attention.

We will call him Magnus, to lend a positive character to the little guy, but he certainly had my curiosity riveted on his industrious habits quite early on in April. He landed on one of the most upper and unlikely branches of this tree and presumably decided to move in. Much was the coming and going during the next week or so, but it was hard to see where it was leading to. Indeed, Magnus accumulated a gratifying collection of twigs, which he acquired from around the grounds and plonked them on his chosen plot in all haste. The problem seemed to be, the architectural aspect which escaped him, when it came to actually making a nest. This haphazard accrual of building material never seemed to mutate into any form at all, let alone a cozy nest for his betrothed. The deficiencies in his unique construction were all to discernible and there was a conspicuous lack of commitment in perfecting his love-nest.

So great was his addiction to stockpiling his construction items, that he was inclined to ruffle up the feathers of the local crows. Much was the squawking on these occasions as he tried to procure property, previously claimed by other contending birds. However, nothing progressed on the structure of his envisioned nest. I didn’t actually witness any potential partners assessing his assortment of woody bits and pieces, but if he had tried to entice any bright young birdies to share his abode with him, she would have taken off like a bat out of hell. Spitting feathers and frothing at the mouth, she probably left him in no doubt as to his unsuitability as a mate, a lover, a father or a home owner. Mind you, in this day of fluid genders, I may be quite wrong in assuming that it was a male magpie. It might have been a she-magpie, named Maggie, trying to be a bit more butch than her ability permitted.

Suddenly I came to the realization that Magnus had actually abandoned the project and only occasionally returned to the bogus nest, to make sure no other compatriots were taking possession of his twig collection. One day, out of sheer boredom, I caught him savaging a trash bag that some careless neighbour had left on the ground. Having strewn the contents far and wide in his search for what, only he can tell you, he left the scene of destruction and flew off to while away his time somewhere else.

We have always been taught that Magpies are in fact the most intelligent of all birds. So, as I look out onto this monstrous pile of twigs that he just left precariously balanced in the tree, I ask myself if he may be the big exception to the rule. Certainly, location, location, location is the be all and end all, in planning digs for your bride and he simply didn’t qualify in that department. His abysmal efforts in construction reminded me of some of today’s young men who lose the interest and vision to finish what they started. It appears that none of Magnus’ compatriots rallied around to help him, so if he intends to procreate this year, he had better take a quick course in learning by doing, to get on the first rung of the housing industry.

Photo: Stefan Wälti