The leaves fall and all the little homes of last year’s baby birds are revealed.
Then the weeks creep past.
This year wetly, but mildly.
Here they didn’t ache and grind under day after day of frost coated mornings.
They were broken by enough blue so that the fog didn’t settle on my mind and
In a blink of seasonal eye
The crepe paper blossoms were popping open and the birds flying in pairs.
Beaks filled with nature’s debris.
Soon the magpies will be aggressively defending their homes and the ducks will be herding their young ‘uns through the flowing river.
There is also a pair of rather ambitious wrens building their nest in our laundry.
In a blue grocery chiller bag hanging from a hook.
For three years they have built here only to abandon it after a particularly raucous bathtime…. I always feel terrible: all that effort wasted.
Do they start over?
Or is that their year’s opportunity to breed dashed?
As I watch them begin again I am sorely tempted just to let my family be the great unwashed.
So that the wrens feel safe enough to stay