So there I was, proud landlord of a brand-new bird Airbnb. I had cut, hammered, sanded, and cursed my way through a book of nesting box plans, convinced that this masterpiece would lure in the dignified Eastern Bluebird. I’d fallen for them years ago in Tennessee—tiny, perfect, feathered jewels—and now I was ready to host their summer retreat.
Enter Frank and Gladys. Just back from Miami, sporting tan lines and a lot of attitude, they were clearly in the market for a summer cottage. Frank, the obvious decision-maker of the duo, perched in my yard like a bird realtor. He squinted at the property, adjusted his little blue tie (in my imagination), and did a slow flyby of the box.
I nearly dropped my coffee. My camera was in my hand faster than you can say, “Is this the moment I become a National Geographic photographer?”
Frank strutted onto the roof like he owned the place, peered inside, sang a little jingle, and called for Gladys. She arrived like a skeptical spouse at an open house.
“Frank, the entrance hole could be a little tighter.”
“Yes, dear, but look—it faces south! It’s on a pole! It’s practically beachfront!”
“And the neighbors?”
“What neighbors? I haven’t seen a sparrow in weeks!”
And with that, Frank and Gladys declared escrow closed and began moving in. They brought twigs, they brought grass—it was HGTV: Bird Edition. I was glowing with pride. I had provided habitat. I was practically John James Audubon with power tools.
And then—cue the Jaws theme.
Sparrows.
Not sweet little Disney sparrows, but a bloodthirsty biker gang on wings. They descended like a Hitchcock casting call. Frank puffed up, spread his wings, and yelled something like, “Get off my lawn!” but it was no use. The sparrows dive-bombed, screamed obscenities, and claimed the box as their own.
My heart sank. I thought maybe I’d botched the construction—wrong hole size, wrong pole height, wrong feng shui. Nope. A quick Google search revealed the grim truth: House Sparrows are the mafia of the cavity-nesting world. Imported thugs from the 1850s, they kill eggs, chicks, sometimes even the poor mom in the box. And they don’t even need the box—they just want to make sure no one else has it.
So Frank and Gladys packed up. I imagine they left on a JetBlue flight to somewhere friendlier—maybe Ohio. I never saw them again.
It’s been five years. My boxes now host sparrows, finches, and wrens—but never, ever a bluebird. I’ve learned the hard way: you can’t outsmart nature, no matter how many instruction books you buy.
I just hope Frank and Gladys found a nicer neighborhood—one without a sparrow gang and with better curb appeal.
I’d love to share my posts with you. If you subscribe, they’ll come straight to your inbox—most days, like a little note from me to you. It means a lot to know you’re reading along.
Click on the link to view and purchase an image in my online gallery at ImagesByGACioe.shop
Leave a Reply