This summer, a pair of Warblers
Chose our porch to raise a brood.
It didn’t seem the wisest choice to me,
As, no matter how thoughtfully we open it
They constantly find their world upturned
Whenever we use the front door.
But I don’t claim to know what goes on in
The mind of a bird. I suppose as they
Built their moss-covered nest
They must have thought the space
Under the eave seemed hidden enough
To be safe from the Red-tailed Hawks
Which patrol the trees in our neighborhood
And high enough to be safe from
Invaders of the slithering variety.
Though their presence, viewed through the
Storm door, taunts our orange and white
Tabby to the brink of madness,
I guess they figured a little foot traffic
Is a small price to pay for a safe place
To settle down and raise some chicks.
And I like to think that maybe we’ve earned a good
Reputation in the local bird community.
The young are hatched now for a few days,
Their tiny heads popping up over the edge
Of the soft nest. Left alone while mother
And father hunt, I climb onto the railing
To see the babies. Mouths open, eyes closed
Waiting for mother, the three chicks seem
A tiny grey ball of soft fluff.
“We’ll keep an eye on you until she returns,”
I whisper. In a heartless world it seems
The least we can do.