Of those nests The Artist weaved during the hiatus she calls Winter, one is now occupied by Chickadee. It used to be barren of shelter out there where a Hawthorn grows, and Chickadees are birds that flit. Not for them the long flight. Their distant horizon is probably no more than twenty yards, and there had better be reward at the end of so unnecessary an adventure.
Then when the children come, they'll move around as a gang, emboldened by numbers, make very loud noises for creatures so small. And a person has to think maybe an older Chickadee is either hard of hearing or stubborn. And I guess too that when time came for us to leave the trees, we had stubbornness between us. There's a value to staying put, digging in and shouting louder, otherwise nowhere is safe and we roam like ghosts. Then a being says to itself, "That looks like a nest!" And usually with nesting there's a second opinion.
Amongst Chickadees, I am told, it's the girl who most likely selects the nest site, and he'll offer a structural opinion, because it's his job to help her prepare the site. The work of making it comfy is all hers, she'll find fur from the briars and bits of string. And I'd hate to make that leap which suggests that in this new frontier of Hawthorn that pre-weave, she's beginning to think him almost useless.