Eating machines

I braved stormy, heavy rainfall last night, clearing out an overflowing, moss-blocked gutter. A miniature waterfall was threatening to drown a family of young Coal Tits, whose parents had decided to build their nest in a nearby disused dry riser, clearly without first consulting any long-range weather forecasts.

When I came home this evening, the yard was again filled with the constant clamour of the perpetually hungry fledglings. I decided to risk a fleeting snapshot, while mum and dad were away briefly, foraging for grubs. It’s all they ever do these days. No more sex-on-demand, just waking up at dawn, day after day, for countless, endless, breathless short-haul flights to the nearest food supply and back, before falling asleep, exhausted, at dusk. It seems that a parent’s job is pretty much the same the world over, almost regardless of species.

Unable to see down the cast iron spout, anxious not to be discovered, I trusted to luck and consumer electronics. I was pleased to see, on the playback screen later, not the four open mouths my ears had imagined, but five.

When Richard Dawkins published his theories on The Selfish Gene, he was right on the nose. Or should I say beak?

Comments

[Dave Bushell]

Brilliant photo, Peter - RSPB?

[Peter Bryenton]

Thanks mate.
Probably.
B.

[Conrad]

A wonderful photograph; subject, position, colour moment - I love it. What an amazing eye you have P.

[Peter Bryenton]

Thank you, Conrad.

[herhimnbryn]

Stunning, stunning.

[Peter Bryenton]

Thank you, HHB.