Outside my window

stands a majestic scrub oak that took root over 200 years ago.  That fact alone makes it completely magical to me.  I hung globe lights from one of it's straightest branches and basked in the glow of lit paper lanterns on warm summer nights.  Those same lights sent their warmth through the newly fallen snow all through the winter.  As spring approached, that oh so perfect branch was discovered by another.  I watched in awe as a robin meticulously worked on her charming nest.  Soon after it's completion it was inhabited by four, Tiffany blue eggs, on which my attention was riveted for weeks.  

The mother nested with absolute dedication.  When her hard work was discovered by a magpie she refused to be moved, heroically standing her ground until two nearby robins came to her rescue.  On the rare occasion she did take leave the father was always there, standing watch until her immanent return.

The day before we left on our trek south the first egg hatched.  I was enthralled by this little one and the bottomless pit that was it's stomach.  Again, the father took his post as moths were caught and offered up to the newest arrival.

Seven days later I returned to a nest filled with four feathery siblings.  How quickly the family had changed in my absence.  After running out to find food for my own offspring I made my way back through a torrential downpour.  I hurried to my window to see how the nest was faring in the awe inspiring storm.   

I found a mother dutifully protecting her young and a father standing over her, sheltering her from the elements.  Her head was nestled deep in his red breast, safe from the storm.  "Thank you for not leaving her alone," I thought.

He doesn't intend for any of us to do it alone.