About two months ago, a bird started building a nest on some pipes underneath an eave on my patio. I've only seen a few of his species around this year, which is a shame because they're cool: little black pointy mowhawks on their crowns, a white feathers on their breast, and a really sweet song -- a soft, whistling chirp that occasionally warbles into something beautiful. Unlike the finches and sparrows we usually get around here, who use twigs and grass and stuff, he built his nest with some goopy stuff that looked like mud.
He worked really hard on this nest, including a couple of false starts, and he finally finished it around the middle of last week. Now, he spends a lot of time on a nearby wire singing his song, like he's looking for another bird to share it with, maybe hatch a couple of eggs . . . you know, typical domestic bird stuff.
He's singing his song right now as I type this, from his familiar spot on the wire, hopping around and flicking his tail and doing everything he can to attract a mate. It seems a little silly, but I've become emotionally invested in this little guy. I sure hope some girl bird hears his song, and moves into the nest . . . I just hope she doesn't make him get rid of all his records when she does.