Poem: I'll Fly Away Some Other Time

I have a birdhouse that has a hinge on its roof, so I can occasionally sneak a peak to see if there are any inhabitants.  I tap first to make sure I don't meet an angry mommy bird.  A couple of weeks ago, I was rewarded with a nest full of baby chickadees.  They were so tiny, but had the clear black and white markings of their breed.  I checked again a couple of days later and they had already flown the coop.  I remarked to my husband that birds have to learn to fly very quickly - no prolonged hanging around the nest allowed.  Today, I noticed that a small wren was staking out the same birdhouse and was very meticulously removing the debris from the previous nest in preparation for a new batch of baby birds.  And so goes the cycle of life.  We humans have it pretty good.  We are born and get to spend years in a nurturing environment learning the ins and outs of how to survive in this crazy world. 

I'll Fly Away Some Other Time

My nest is lined with
linen and lace,
and fine
eider down
for sleeping.

I wake to the sound
of a bird chirping near,
in a tree that
hangs low to the ground.

She looks at me; I look at her,
we survey the fine nests we have made,
she cocks her head
with a curious tilt,
a question hangs light in the air.

She might want a bit of my linen and lace
to line her fine nest in the tree,
or maybe some eider to cradle the eggs
in a comforting, loving embrace.

I pull down the shade 

close my eyes tight -
the covers pulled up to my chin;
I’ll keep my fine nest
for as long as I can -
I'll fly away some other time.