All was quiet in the bird’s nest in the zygocactus. So quiet we wondered whether anyone was at home.

Our comings and goings hadn’t deterred a pair of White-browed Scrubwrens from building the nest. Whenever we had things to do on the back deck, the female would fly back and forth within centimetres of us, tearing bark strips from the wood in the box at the back door. She’d  return to the nest with her beak laden.

As I rode my exercise bike, they’d flit around as if I wasn’t there. Even the washing machine in spin cycle, when it shakes the whole house, didn’t seem to bother them.

The pair would jump around close to our feet, pecking at insects between the boards. But their tameness was tempered by their speed and their acceleration in flight was astounding.

One day, the birds’ ceaseless activity came to a halt. We guessed that the nest was occupied and tried to give it a wide berth – fairly difficult when its location was just outside the laundry door.

After a few days, during which there’d been no sign of the birds, not even their characteristic call, I gingerly parted the branches of the zygocactus to peek inside.

There was the nest: a beautifully woven ball beneath a canopy of gathered leaves. It was empty.

We left it for a few more days, just to make sure, then I carefully brushed the leaves from the top of the plant and lifted out the nest. A small, flattened area in the middle of the plant was the only sign that the nest had been there at all.

I placed the nest into a small bowl and left it on the table on the deck. I’ll show it to family and friends when they visit. Before that, if a bird needs some nest materials and salvages something from it, that’s fine by me.

We stood the plant out in the rain for a long drink. It now looks a little happier.