by Susanna Curtin

I CANNOT get over how quickly the year is passing. May is already at its close, and for some unfathomable reason, I have missed the dancing heads of wood anemones and the best of the bluebells – even the wild garlic was past its glory by the time I got to the woods. I feel somewhat bereft by this realisation, as my annual pilgrimage to pay homage to these seasonal joys is a counter to the uncertainties that life affords. The arrival of the swifts in early May, the first cuckoo, and the soulful sounds of nightingale are part of the annual comings and goings that provide me with a safe feeling of constancy. They are like old friends coming to say hello, reminding me that all is well, that the world is still spinning. I promise myself not to let the next arrival of flowers, birds or butterflies pass without my noticing.

But for now, as I sit in my lounge watching my pair of blackbirds forage to feed their chicks, I realise how much there is to do in the garden. It will be another day of chores. Despite missing my trips to the woods, I don’t mind staying home today. I love my scruffy array of garden flowers and all the creatures that gather right outside my door.

So, armed with my tools, I have happily set to work on my flowerbeds. Although lost in my thoughts of the June roses still to come, a sudden lack of birdsong alerts me to the trouble that is about to unfold. Looking up towards my ash tree I watch in despair as a sparrowhawk sweeps up one of the blackbird chicks who was perched on the fence – his talons hooked tightly into the screeching ball of brown feathers. He then speeds right past my face and out into the fields beyond, lost against the infinitous blue sky as he flies his bounty towards his hungry young.

Blackbirds are our familiar garden companions. Not only are they the nocturnal songsters that break into our sleep in the early hours with their beautiful melodies and languid notes, but they are also birds with whom we frequently form an attachment. I have known many people name their blackbirds and become overly invested in their trials and tribulations, especially through the winter and at this time of year, as they raise their young. I am no exception. I still remember one dear blackbird who would repeat the same catchy tune at the end of each day. It was such a sad realisation when his last song had been sung.

Unfortunately, my blackbirds have had a bad time of it this year. First, a failed nest in my Jasmine, and then only two chicks from the nest in the apple tree, and alas, now they are down to one. I listen in dismay at the cacophony that follows the kidnapping. Their shrill angst-ridden calls speak of astonishment, anger and loss. You might think this too anthropomorphic for a scientist, and in the past I might have agreed with you, claiming that birds are all about instinct and not love. However, animal behavioural science is uncovering convincing evidence that suggests many birds and animals are indeed sentient beings. Besides, the empathy we reveal towards creatures outside of our own human experience is a precursor to love and care – two components that are essential if we are to protect and understand the current plight of nature.

It took half an hour before these two parent birds simmered down and resumed feeding their last chick. We all got on with the day. That was, until more tragedy struck. This time it was the male bird who succumbed as he flew into my upstairs window and plummeted on the paving below. Now the future of this surviving chick is utterly dependent on its single mother.

What a sobering reminder this is, that life can change in an instant. I sadly gather my gardening tools as the baby blackbird perches patiently waiting for his mother’s full beak. She has to carry on regardless of what has befallen her, like we all do, with as much resilience, hope and faith that we can muster.

Dr Susie Curtin (email curtin.susanna@gmail.com)