Who's that squatting in my bluebird house?

Yesterday afternoon I opened the front of the restored bluebird house. The contents left me taken aback. I've seen similar, larger nests in heron rookeries and made by eagles or ospreys. Never before have I come across a nest in a bluebird or martin house made entirely of twigs or sticks and looking like this.

who built this stack of twigs?

Photo by J. Harrington

Thanks to the wonders of the internets,  I was able to search for possible explanations of which bird or birds would fill a bluebird house with twigs and only twigs. There's a long list, longer than I expected, of "Nests and eggs that may show up in bluebird nestboxes." Since, in past years, I may have misidentified a house finch as a purple finch, the twigs may have belonged to a house finch. Then, again, based on the  photos of the "dummy nest," I'm leaning toward identifying the mess I cleaned out as having belonged to a house wren. I'll keep an eye on the nesting box more frequently in hopes that a bluebird of happiness may return to raise a family if it doesn't have to battle squatters.

bird on the right: purple finch  or house finch?

Photo by J. Harrington

Two years ago, for the  first time I noticed, the tree swallows that have been nesting over the years in the house we put up to attract martins were battling the bluebirds over territory. Last year the neighborhood bear took down the nesting box, consumed the eggs or nestlings, and left a broken 2" X 4" on which the box had been mounted for about twenty years. This year, along with all the other craziness of 2020, the restored bluebird house has attracted some other species. I am truly starting to yearn for the good old days, although I read that the arrow of time travels in only one direction. It may be interesting to see what else happens between now and the start of migration season.

Baby Wrens’ Voices

By Thomas R. Smith

I am a student of wrens. 

When the mother bird returns 

to her brood, beak squirming 

with winged breakfast, a shrill 

clamor rises like jingling 

from tiny, high-pitched bells. 

Who’d have guessed such a small 

house contained so many voices? 

The sound they make is the pure sound 

of life’s hunger. Who hangs our house 

in the world’s branches, and listens 

when we sing from our hunger? 

Because I love best those songs 

that shake the house of the singer, 

I am a student of wrens.

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