The recently fledged raptor perched at the end of a towering white pine branch. It seemed excited about something as it called continually, then launched itself from its tree. It traveled easily across the clearing, heading for another pine.

Its descent into the tree had none of the grace and finesse that it would acquire later on. As it reached out for a branch, it flailed its wings wildly, trying to check its motion and maintain its balance at the same time. Even after it had made contact, stability remained elusive as it continued to flap clumsily, tail feathers spread wide for balance.

Flying, apparently, was the easy part; it was landing that needed a bit more work.

The pair of merlins that had successfully raised four young last year had returned to the clearing to start another family. Raptor parents tend to return to the same nest if they have bred successfully there in previous years; any of their young, had they survived, would have found a different nesting area.

As I had last year, I was able again to observe some of their courtship rituals, and looked forward to watching another crop of chicks grow up. However, I was not sure that the young had hatched at all until recently.

I had been able to glimpse the mother from time to time as she incubated the eggs.

Actually, the very tip of her tail was all I could see, since the nest is located about 70 feet up into the tree. I had also observed her flying up to the nest after eating a meal, so I knew she had to have been brooding a clutch of eggs.

Then one day at the end of May a terrific storm blew in. When I visited the site afterwards, I noticed the nest was pretty bedraggled; part of it seemed to have fallen apart.

It had never looked very substantial to begin with, and now I wondered if the wind had finally gotten to it. I did not see any sign of the parents, and no activity in the nest, for more than a week after the storm. I was afraid the nest had been destroyed and the parents had deserted the area.

Returning to the area one day after several fruitless attempts to locate the birds, I was elated to catch sight of the female. She was perched in a poplar tree, and I could see she was feeding on a small mammal. I held my breath as she then took off with the remainder of the prey in her talons; she was heading towards the nest tree!

Straight up to the nest she flew, landed, and tore off a small bit of meat. She then bent her head down into the nest. She repeated this several times, and I knew she was feeding her young ones.

They had survived.

I got my first glimpse of one of the chicks several days afterwards. I saw movement in the nest, then a fuzzy little rear-end (the chicks, at this point, were still covered in natal down) appeared over its rim, as the chick defecated outside of the nest. This behavior is adopted as soon as the chicks are old enough to move about; it prevents the nest from becoming fouled with excrement.

I guess not many people can say they’ve been mooned by a baby merlin.

Chris Corio’s column on birds is published each Saturday. Corio, a volunteer at Fields Pond Nature Center in Holden, can be reached at fieldspond@juno.com