Behind our building, there's a fairly shallow, fairly narrow, stream. Some moorhens have made a nest there. It's right next to the wooden footbridge that leads from the car park over to Sunnymead Meadow, so you can get a close-up look at the birds and their nest-making techniques.
(The above photo is of a generic moorhen. I don't have a camera or time to take pictures of moorhens)
They've done a great job. The nest looks luxurious. There are eggs in the nest, which I'm assuming belong to the moorhens. There's a whole lot of incubating going on.
But I'm worried. The nest is really close to the footpath. People walk their dogs over there. The eggs seem too exposed.
I don't know what kind of animal would eat moorhen eggs. I assume a fox or a cat would be put off by the water. But dogs love swimming and eating things. What about a child? A stupid, angry child might look at those eggs and think about smashing them, because that's the kind of thing that children do. They think the only way to understand something is by destroying it. I suppose they're right, which is why I'm always trying to "understand" kids' faces with the flat of my hand.
I'm worried about the eggs. I thought about protecting them. I could set up a guard tower like in a prison movie, and could pick off any would-be assailants with a sniper rifle. I'd have to work in three eight-hour shifts per day, with no break.
I'd vow to protect the eggs with my life. If I saw a dog or a child or an electro-eggmagnet approaching the nest, I'd shout "Oi! No!" before firing, just to prevent any nasty lawsuits.
I could build a perspex shield around the nest. Nine out of ten hundred eggs are killed by meteor fragments or falling champagne corks from a nearby baptism.
I don't want anything to happen to those eggs.
But I began to realise that, for all my human DNA and computers and handshake proficiency, the moorhens are better equipped to protect moorhen eggs than I am.
It's a humbling thought.
We like to think that we're at the top of the food chain. The top of the evolutionary ladder. The top of the genetic heap. And we are, sort-of.
But we have our specialisations, just like the animals. A moorhen wouldn't be able to surtitle an opera. And we can't protect eggs.
Moorhens know from experience (or genetics) what dangers are present. They'd know that dogs are no threat and that meteors are repelled by feathers, for example. They know how warm to keep the eggs. They know how big the nest should be. They know.
My wanting to protect the eggs is patronising. Humanity doesn't have a monopoly on know-how. There are areas where we're completely ignorant. In those cases, it's best to butt out and let birds be birds.
I hope the eggs are OK. I hope they hatch into little moorchicks. I hope those chicks go on to lead very rich and interesting lives, by moorhen standards.
It's just that I've realised I can't play moorgod. I'm just a man. A human man. I wouldn't want a moorhen looking after my baby. It might peck it.
You have to learn when to let go. Abdicating responsibility is sometimes the key to prolonged success. Uncertainty is a price worth paying. If you want to make a mooromelette, you've got to break a few vows.
Good old moorhens.
***
I have some more content, but I'm going to ration it. Tree tum mean, keep um Keane, or whatever that expression is.
I'm going to give you a sneak preview here, to force myself to actually write these later.
1) I came up with a joke, but took a long time getting the phrasing just right
2) I got hit in the face by keys, then insulted the culprit by saying his dad was a miner
Stay tuned.
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