A Squab

There’s a big kerfuffle in the garden. Something’s happening in the pine tree. I glance out of the window and see a Carrion Crow is attacking the Wood Pigeon’s nest. Naturally the Wood Pigeon isn’t too happy about it. Then it all goes quiet.

I pop my head out of the kitchen door and see the Carrion Crow pecking at a grey shape on the ground. It flies off and leaves me looking at a fluffy lump. It’s a large Wood Pigeon chick.

I pick it up and carry it round to my neighbour’s in an attempt to get onto his balcony and put it back in the nest. The nest is out of reach and the tree sways too much to get a ladder up there. It’s also higher than my ladder.

Wood Pigeon - The Hall of Einar - photograph (c) David Bailey (not the)

I place it in a planter just under the nest. Will the parents find it and feed it? I have my doubts. They’re not birds with the greatest problem-solving skills. I spend an anxious day looking out occasionally to see if it’s still there. It is.

If a human had knocked it out of the nest then I’d be straight onto my local rescue organisation. However, it’s Carrion Crow food and that makes it different to me. I know they need intensive care and specially formulated milk. I worry about it all night. In the morning I’ve made my decision. I go to the window, and see that it’s gone. I wander into the garden. There’s no sign of it.

Something’s made the decision for me. That’s nature.

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