Why the Weaver Bird Tears Down His Nest — Epoche A2
There is a tree behind my house in Lusaka, and since October it has been full of noise. Weaver birds. This year I finally sat down to see what all the shouting is about. The male builds the nest. He hangs it from the very tip of a thin branch, where a snake cannot easily go, and he weaves it from green grass, blade by blade, with the door at the bottom, facing down. Then he hangs under his own work, flaps his wings and calls. He is not singing to the sky; he is advertising. A female comes, goes inside and inspects the house like a buyer — the walls, the door, everything. If she likes it, she moves in and lines it with soft grass. If she does not like it, the male does something that surprised me the first time: he tears the whole nest down himself. He pulls it apart, blade by blade, lets the pieces fall, and the next morning he starts a new one, often on the same twig. The colour matters too. A nest fades from green to brown in a few days, and a faded nest is an old offer. Under the tree lies the grass of all the refused houses. All my life I have heard this noise. I never knew it was an inspection.