Angry birds, or, Don't mess with Mama!
One of the hanging plants on my front porch harbors a new family of wrens. From robins to wrens, it has been a season of wild procreation at our house. Among only the non-humans, fortunately. The wren parents have been very diligent. All through the holiday weekend I watched them, as they took turns feeding their hungry brood. The wrens were not as trusting of me as the robins were: they developed their own little routine for getting past the chair where I was sitting. They hopped first to the woodpile, then to the porch floor, then immediately dove off the edge of the porch and hopped sneakily along the ground, below the porch's edge, till they reached the path. Then they made a daring flight across the path, and continued along the side of the house until they reached the location of the best food. They made this same return trip, and they must made this circle about 40 times while I sat there trying to read Walden . All of a sudden, I was roused by a piercing squawk. Looki