Little Birdie


We caught sight of it

With a tingling chill

Pulling near the barn

And heard the high wail hum

Of its caravan swarm.

Clinging to the side

Of the wild plum—-

A universe of honey bees in transit.


It was stunning,


Thousands of lives as one,

An omen, a sign

A touch divine


That opening in the vortex

Of appearances.


She came

Some days later,

Darting through the summer porch

Fleeting whirr of shadow

Busy as the bees.

Through the window

By the grand piano,

We watched her



She chose a corner

Where hangs an Epiphilium

Whose  ‘floozy’ flowers

Are anything but humdrum:

Florescent red, hot pink,  and cream

Not a nesting home, it would seem.

But bird brains know better.

Mother nature’s a survival dream.


In a single day

With sticks and string

And the mossy green

Of marshy finds

She lines her

Nest with the best debris—

Tough and beautiful

Withstanding every test

Of wind and being.


Porch pots were filled

With seedlings then,

When she settled in,

And now grow tall

With rainbow blooms

Building a high wall

To shelter in twiggy rooms,

Small pink eggs

For which she begs

A tender care.


Why so close to the house

Did she build her nest?

Is she new to nature?

Does she not know

That humans casually violate

The inviolate trust of living rest?


Maybe she senses

In just this spot

That  those within

Know  grace divine

In this little wren.




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