Movement outside the window
Catches my eye.
A flick of a tail on a suspended
String of lights
Hello old friend,
You survived another winter
And have returned.
Another nest to build.
Another family to raise
Under the protective eaves
Of my porch.
My heart smiles.
Welcome home.
Why did the turkeys cross the road?
To go back and forth again
And again and again.
I sit in my car watching them,
Watching me with their tiny eyes.
The scene is repeated in the car
Across from me.
Several cars are stuck
In this spot in the road.
While these birds
Try to make up their mind.
Which side of the road
They would rather be on.
I found a little feather
Sitting in the in the sod,
I knew this miniature perfection
Could only be from God.
His hand touched and created
Its tiny, little spots
I’ve never seen a feather
With such perfect polka dots.
The crows gather as the sun rises
Outside my window.
Black specks in the branches
Hanging over the house
There is one in particular
Who, once starts,
Doesn’t stop.
To me, lying in bed,
It sounds as though
He argues with
All the others
In the yard.
It is harsh and guttural
And soul-jarring.
Making my heart
Race,
When all I long
To do
Is sleep.
I have no idea how it survived the drop
The plump little feathered fledgling
Sitting on my porch.
It woke up this morning
In the small nest nestled in the eaves.
Now it sits blinking in the sun.
Suddenly flapping its wings furiously
Trying to catch the breeze
That ruffles its feathers
And lift off.
But only manages to hover a foot and
Lands again.
I hear the parents in a nearby tree
Their sharp chirps ring through
The air.
All at once I am completely
Invested.
I stare out the window and will it
To take its first flight.
Enraptured by the raptors
I’ve lost all sense of myself
Oh! How I wish I could fly
As they do.
Carried effortlessly on invisible
Currents of air.
Magnificently feathered wings
Outstretched
Gliding for what seems like
Hours.
Silhouetted against the brilliant blue sky.
Weeks of preparation have led to this day
Shivering nervously on the ends of branches
Divinely designed green skirts flutter in
The warmly growing breeze.
Each seed wakened recently
Out of a winter’s slumber.
Birdsong like the warming
Of an orchestra
Signals that it is time.
They let go.
Spiraling to the ground
In the hundreds.
Raining down in sheets of green.
Another reminder that nature
Is, at its root, pure magic.
The drooping string of Christmas lights hanging from the porch roof makes an excellent perch the little house wren decided. He had been busy flying to and fro working on the nest under the eaves. His little feet grip the plastic wires in between the colored bulbs and he gazes out onto the yard his head moving every which way to scan for danger. He has been busy all morning and is only vaguely aware of the figure behind the window watching him intently. This is his second spring here and he is used to the comings and goings from the house. Last year the hanging plant, sitting on the porch floor, was his favorite perch but he enjoyed the slight swinging motion the light string provided when the warm sunny breeze blew. Suddenly a bit of colored string tangled in the grass catches his eye and with a light motion he pushes off and it’s back to work.
