Two mourning doves have nested on the floor of my apartment balcony. Two because the male and female birds, mother and father, take turns sitting on the eggs in twelve-hour shifts.  I think the babies just hatched because the gestation period of two weeks is over, and because if I look closely, albeit quickly, I think I see a few baby feathers under whichever parent is on the nest.  This is the way the parents protect the newborns, by keeping them under wraps for three or four days.

The wet woodlands behind my home are full of loud bird noises all day and night.  Grackles, cardinals, crows, gold finches, blue jays, sparrows and hummingbirds chase one another with the abandon of the season. Owls and falcons, too, though they are largely hidden.

Everyday, I peek on the nest, hoping the family makes it.  It has been rough weather with wind, gale, gust, alternating with sunny calm. Even now as I type, the sun alternates with flakey snow.  Another week should see them safely off.  Meanwhile,  tiny tree frog has taken residence in one of the flower pots, and a fat bumble bee flies about.

I am so lucky to live in this bounty, this beauty.