They have two little chicks that, for now, are nameless. Eventually, the two chicks will have their names selected by a group of third graders in Big Bear. I turn on the livestream when I start my work day, usually watching on my second monitor, but occasionally parking myself on the couch and opting for a more full-screen experience on the TV.

I spend my day typing Slack messages, and Jackie and Shadow spend theirs hunting and feeding their babies and maintaining their nest and watching for threats. When my husband calls on his way home from work to check in I tell him about these developments. “How was your day?” he asks.

“It was good, but a little stressful because Jackie and Shadow had to leave the chicks to chase off some ravens that were getting too close to the nest.” “Oh,” he says, “that is stressful,” kindly refraining from pointing out that this information tells him nothing about my day. My day, usually, is good too, if not also a little stressful. I run the fact-checking department for Mother Jones.

I read the news, and like my colleagues, I live in it. I read their reporting carefully, looking for any leaps in logic or possible factual discrepancies or potential legal issues. I believe strongly in what I do, what we do here at the Center for Investigative Reporting, and I like doing it too.

Sometimes though, I am overwhelmed by the responsibility of being a journalist in today’s world, or by the news or by just being a person existing. But I look up from a court document or new draft of a story or an email from a writer when I hear Jackie start to crow. My dog hates the sound, and she’ll pace the living room, looking for the source.

Usually, Jackie is shrieking in delight as Shadow delivers a fish from the lake, and she will immediately jump up to feed her chicks. They are just about two weeks old now, but they are growing so fast. They have to, because they’ll fledge the nest in just about eight weeks.

It reminds me of when my husband returns home from work, sometimes with a little treat he’s picked up on the way: a piece of chocolate or a small bag of chips. I crow with delight too, though I have spent the entire day only feet from my kitchen and its full pantry, while Jackie has spent hers 145 feet in the air in a Jeffrey pine tree. Everything about watching these birds delights me, and simultaneously makes me feel totally insignificant.

I get cold and I turn on our heat. Jackie braves snowstorms, creating a canopy with her wings to keep the snow off her chicks. I send more Slacks.

Jackie shows her babies how to fly. Sometimes Jackie stares directly into the camera, and I imagine she’s looking right at me. She can see through the camera and into my living room, me in my enormous stained sweatshirts, my dirty dishes around me, staring at my laptop screen.

I wonder how it makes her feel about her nest way up there. I wonder, if from her vantage point, we look as small as I feel.