It all began with a terrible accident four years ago. Annette Litle and her husband were pruning a camellia that should have been tended to many months earlier. As they picked up debris to compost, the San Francisco couple found a nest among the discarded branches, with four screaming nestlings, eyes still unopened.

Horrified, panicked and crying, I carefully lifted the nest back into the bush with my gloved hands. I held vigil to see if the parents would come back to feed them. They did not. I stayed away from the nest for a few days in hopes that nature could recover from my carelessness. It did not. When I finally checked, the nest was empty.

My sadness at the loss of these babies caused me to start viewing things differently. I began looking in my backyard.

Through the ensuing years I watched and waited to see who would visit and perhaps take up residence. One day, I spotted an American robin perched on the fence with a big juicy worm in its beak. Seeing all was safe, she flew into one of our trees to feed her babies. Only then did I hear them. How could a nest have been there all along, right in front of me with wailing babies, and I still had not noticed?

Learning to be quiet opened up a world of wonder, teaching me how to look and listen for the birds. For a week, my four children and I sat quietly, watching the robin fly back and forth caring for the nestlings. It was so exciting to experience this new life materializing in our own garden. But one morning, I stepped outside to check on the robins, only to find their nest torn to shreds, one of the babies dead on the ground. A raccoon, maybe?

Again I was stricken with sadness. However, this tragedy became an opportunity to begin respecting our urban wildlife and learning how difficult it is for birds to survive predators, including humans.

The next season, I saw the activity I'd been waiting for. A new bird showed up, busily caring for its nest and young in my Mayten tree. I went online to identify this black, glossy, yellow-eyed beauty and learned it was a Brewer's blackbird. I decided to try identifying the other birds that frequent my garden. Our hummingbird is a male Anna's hummingbird. The cheery, noisy racket waking me in the morning comes from the house finches visiting my feeder. Our family celebrated as the little blackbirds became fledglings, foraging on our patio and practicing their flying skills.

That year, I found two other nests left behind at the end of the season, and began photographing them. As a photographer and interior designer, I've worked with architects, and what struck me about these nests was their beauty and practicality. The choices of materials and varied construction methods are wondrous. Human architects strive for sustainability and environmentally friendly construction, but birds have been masters of green design and building since before humans set foot on the continent.

I'm so inspired by the birds that I've begun to incorporate images of their nests into my artwork. My perspective is different now. At first, I looked at birds as welcome tenants in my garden, but not anymore.

Now, I see myself as a lucky guest in their kingdom.

An earlier version of this essay appeared in Golden Gate Birder, the blog of the Golden Gate Audubon Society. For additional bird tales, go to
