The nest was so well camouflaged I nearly stepped on it. Three buff-colored eggs with black, Jackson Polluck-esque markings surrounded by shreds of bark and wood chips, tucked at the base of a small tree. There was no sign of an adult killdeer to sound the alarm or coax me away from the nest by feigning injury with this species’ classic broken-wing display. For the moment, it appeared that the eggs were on their own. To be fair, they were protected by their camouflage. But how long would that work against foxes, raccoons, the crows I could hear in nearby oaks?

I left the nest—and the park—albeit reluctantly. Years ago, I worked at a nature center with a wildlife rehab program and witnessed many instances in which well-meaning interventions were either 1) not needed or 2) went awry, to the detriment of the “rescued.” We’d caution callers not to act too fast, since a nest (or often, a fawn) that appeared to be abandoned was likely not abandoned at all. This time, I gave the advice to myself.

Still. There are interventions and then there are interventions.

The park is one I visit daily to walk the dog. The following day, from a distance, I could (just barely) make out a killdeer hunkered over the nest. Good news! But the goal posts have moved.

Now, the hope was that the assumed pair of adults (though I saw only one at a time) would successfully bring the eggs through to hatching. It was May 7. According to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, killdeer have an incubation period of 22-28 days. It became a habit to glance over at the nest with binoculars as I passed each day. Is it still there?

There was a time when early nesting killdeer would get caught by cold and snow. But this was May of 2025, when record-breaking heat rose through the 80s for days, spiking to 90°F on the 11th. Throughout, a killdeer remained at the nest, beak agape, panting through the hot days, wings out. The small tree didn’t help, casting almost no shade.

Added to the heat, the killdeer had selected a busy place for a nest. The park is used by lots of people and dogs, the latter of which are not always leashed as the park rules require. Even so, day after day, then week after week, the world spun past and the killdeer sat. And sat. And sat.

It’s considered both a strength and a weakness for the species: a tolerance of the human activity in urban and residential settings, and the associated risks of nest disturbance. Nature knows what it’s doing. Or so we tell ourselves.

Back to the interventions. The nest was in a picnic area that is typically well groomed in summer. When will they mow?!

The maintenance man in the park’s shop is friendly. Sure, he’d like to see where the nest is. “Would you look at that,” he says appreciatively. “Never would have seen it.” Yes, he’ll tell the rest of the mowing crew to keep an eye out and ask them not to mow too near the nest.

Great.

They are true to their word. Days tick by. But now it’s Memorial Day weekend. There is a picnic table within about 20 feet of the nest. It is a park, after all. It belongs to people, too. It just seems a shame to have all the birds’ efforts thus far be for naught, when the eggs are now so close to hatching. How to buy them more time? Hmmm. Maybe a cooler and a coffee thermos on that picnic table first thing in the morning would persuade people to choose a different spot? But that would be bonkers.

Do it anyway? Yep. With coffee in the pot. To be convincing.

I hereby and forthwith take back all those times in movie theaters where I’ve said, “No one would ever do that.” I now believe in plots that rely on the slippery slope principle: it has more to do with how invested you have become.

That said, I may be foolish, but I’m no fool. I absolutely believe in the necessity of focusing conservation measures on protection of rare species and a diversity of native plant communities. Grassland songbirds, in particular, are in dire straits, even on many of the state’s prairie reserves. And species that rely on large blocks of mature northern forests, like the goshawk, deserve a hard look at current lumbering quotas on public forest lands in their critical breeding areas. Not to mention non-avian species, like the little four-toed salamander who lays its eggs in mounds of sphagnum moss beside isolated pools in those same mature forests. With tax time upon us, it’s a good time to remember the “Loon Line”—formerly known as the Chickadee Check-off—to support the vital work of Minnesota DNR’s Nongame Wildlife Program.

A type of plover, the killdeer (Charadrius vociferous) is not a rare or listed species. It is not endangered or threatened or special concern. It is not a Minnesota Species in Greatest Conservation Need (SGCN). The International Union for Conservation of Nature ranks it as “least concern.” Populations are declining, like many species, but it’s not a priority species for conservation action. It’s also still early in the season and, if this nest fails, the pair may have another two broods before fall migration. But this isn’t about killdeer, writ large. It’s about killdeer, writ small. This pair, these three eggs. Here.

Deluged by the scope and scale of current environmental and political troubles, it is tempting to harden our hearts to what we see in the everyday. In the interest of prioritizing (picking our battles), coping, or sheer weariness, we might bypass consideration of action and shift straight to regret: to “that’s a shame” or “it can’t be helped.” Sometimes, it’s true. But any cardiologist will tell you that a hardened heart doesn’t function well. The impulse to help the vulnerable is who we are. It’s what will get us through. Even when it’s bonkers.

The thermos and cooler look at home on the picnic table. Much friendlier than a “reserved” sign.

I return later that afternoon to find a large group of people gathered at the site. They are also using an adjacent picnic table and have a grill going. There is music playing. Kids are tossing a frisbee. Women wearing colorful print saris are seated at the table. The thermos and cooler have politely been moved to one end of the table, suggesting that their owner, if they ever show up, would be welcome to join them.

The killdeer is on the nest.

The next day, it is still there.

It is more than a week later when something has clearly happened. The killdeer is nowhere to be seen. The nest is empty: no eggs, no eggshells. The shreds of bark and woodchips look undisturbed, as if the eggs had never been there.

I learn that attending killdeer parents quickly remove eggshells from the nest when their young have hatched, ostensibly to avoid attracting predators in the few hours that their precocial nestlings spend in the nest before heading off into the world.

Maybe they got their chance after all. I look across the expanse of grass and down near the lake, hoping to catch sight of little puffballs with toothpick legs. I remember the piping plover chick I spotted in the low dunes next to a packed Cape Cod beach, outside of the area that was fenced and signed to protect nesting habitat of this federally listed, threatened* species. It was both thrilling and terrifying to see the exquisite little creature skittering along, its body the size of a walnut, against the immense backdrop of sand, ocean, sky and people.

I decide to take it as a positive sign when I don’t see any killdeer chicks. Their camouflage must be very, very good.

* Note: The Atlantic Coast and Northern Great Plains populations of the piping plover (Charadrius melodus) are federally listed as threatened, while the Great Lakes population is federally listed as endangered. Minnesota is known to have only one or two breeding pairs. A 2021 report of a nesting pair with two chicks in Lake of the Woods County (part of the Northern Great Plains population) was welcome news. According to the MN DNR, the same female (who is banded) nested and successfully fledged two chicks again in 2024, thanks in part to a Nongame Program contractor and volunteers who helped protect the nest from predators and rising waters. Find more about piping plovers in Minnesota in the Rare Species Guide.