Nesting
Nesting
by Sarah Russell
The finches are courting
outside our window, a warbled
discussion of real estate and love.
Like last year and the year before,
they want to lease the flower wreath
on our front door. It's always a dilemma:
discourage their rapture or detour
through the garage?
The finches always win. So
for a month we'll wake to overtures
at dawn—so cheerful, so loud—
show pictures of pin-feathered babies
to friends, recall demands
and pleasures of our own brood,
the bittersweet fledging.
First published in Your Daily Poem
Red whiskered bulbul nest in India
This Summer by Abha Das Sarma
like every other
the chirping stopped
one summer day-
flown
gone
maybe to return
when spring
in times we live.
The sun blazed
on the living
on the dead.
Note: I write the above piece with great sadness, a promise to Sharon and myself.
I called Sharon on 30th June at 11:00am PST before leaving for India later that day. The call went to the voice message, as it often happened and Al picked up.
‘I am Abha, can I talk to Sharon please! And how are you Al?’
The words that I heard back were a bit garbled, but the phone was with Sharon soon after. In between your coughs Sharon, you mentioned that it was extremely hot and you both had decided against Al’s going outside until it cooled down. At the airport I saw your post on the Facebook, I do not believe it, did I hear Al’s last words?
The Killdeer’s Cry by Joan Leotta
My
neighbor’s empty lot,
grown over with
wild grasses, dandelions, clover,
was a draw for butterflies
bees, for unseen creatures
until the mowers came.
After they left, I saw her,
frantically skittering in circles
where her nest must have been.
I watched, listened
to her keening as she searched.
Her voice pierced my heart,
for I recognized her sorrow.
She was mourning chicks
lost with the nest.
As a mother who has
also lost a child, I joined my
tears to her cries.
First published in One Art
These blue jays by Joe Cottonwood
are bad engineers
tuck sticks in sloppy piles
ignore my advice
in fact scream at my suggestions
and yet the nest grows round
somehow cozy
and I see papa bring
a red ribbon
found somewhere
seeming random
yet chosen
a gift from a gift
now poked by mama
and woven
among blue eggs
First published in Your Daily Poem
Nest Mates by Wilda Morris
You say I am a red-winged blackbird,
content for months at the edge of a marsh
until my feathers flutter and I need to ride the wind,
nest in a new place awhile, and you are a meadowlark
perched on a Kansas fencepost singing an intricate repertoire,
happy not to migrate too far from home.
I say you are a barn owl adjusted to suburban life,
your heart-shaped face a fountain of love
but I am a peregrine falcon who could live
by the wetlands, seashore, grassland, forest or city,
a hunter always searching for something more.
We agree we are both ducks. You, a dabbling duck,
forage in the shallows of television, but then you are a diver,
plunging deep for sustenance from history, theology, biography.
I dabble in the shoals of easy Sudoku and crossword puzzles
wade into astronomy and geology to see what tidbits I can digest.
I dive deeply into history, theology and biography
and meet you there.
Our inner ducks brought us together. Internal songbirds
and raptors keep our love lively, intriguing.
The Strange Nesting Habits of Carolina Wrens by Judith Waller Carroll
Now that it is just the two of us, we are drawn
to the birds that visit our backyard feeder, rummage
and chirp in the thicket, build nests in the most unlikely places.
A pair of Carolina wrens carries twigs and old leaves
to the fertilizer bag, the plants on the front porch.
We watch with dismay as one burrows into the lavender,
a gift our daughter sent special delivery, a seedling
we lovingly planted and watched grow
into a bushy shrub. A few new leaves are beginning
to break through last year’s brittle growth.
The wren hops out whenever we try to water,
exposing two speckled eggs the size of jawbreakers
under a makeshift roof of a leaf and a twig. We are torn
between keeping the lavender alive
and preserving this nest, this home diligently built
by the bird-brained mother who anxiously peeks
from around a nearby bush. We keep watch
and rain comes, divine intervention. A few days later
there is no trace of the bird or the eggs, only leaves,
twigs, a dry husk perfectly intact, intricate, woven to last.
From Walking in Early September
The Hoopoes Are Back by Lynn White
The hoopoes are back,
even though
the walls and holes they liked to nest in
were destroyed by human nest builders
four years ago,
when there was a housing boom
and money to be made.
The hoopoes are back,
even though
the new holes and rubble they liked to nest in
were destroyed by human nest builders
three years ago,
even though,
there was no market for nests
and no money to be made.
The hoopoes are back,
even though
the new holes and rubble they liked to nest in
were washed away two years ago,
as the walls that stopped the storm flow
were destroyed by human nest builders,
to prepare the ground for money to be made.
The hoopoes are back,
even though
their nesting places are hidden, buried
under growing mountains of rubble brought
by the human nest builders a year ago
as there is no demand for human nests
and no money to be made, except from rubble.
Hey, the hoopoes are back! I’ve seen them!
The hoopoes are back!
First published by Furry Writers Guild in Civilised Beasts Anthology
Male and female house sparrow
The Saga of the Sparrows and Survivor Starts in the Spring by Sharon Waller Knutson
April 15, 2025
We hear a cry coming from the Arizona room
where the feral feline we call Survivor
has taken up residence for over two years.
Fearing Survivor may be sick or injured,
we rush out shocked to see a tiny sparrow
chirping and flying circles around the tomcat
like a pesky mosquito. Oblivious to the commotion,
the cat, curled up on a cushioned chair, snoozes away.
My husband spies a bird’s nest hidden behind ceiling pipes
as he feeds the cat raw meatballs for breakfast the next morning.
Little do we know we will not be seeing eggs hatching
or bald babies opening mouths as Mama and Papa
feed them. These babies are already feathered
and flying and finding their new roommate fun
to tease too naïve to know it is a cat that eats birds.
My husband finds the first dead sparrow at the cat
feeder but Mama and Papa don’t seem to be phased
by a death in the family but keep on traveling
back and forth through the torn screen as the cat sleeps
in a cardboard container or goes out the screen at night.
April turns to May and a scared sparrow swoops
and squawks as the cat blocks the exit.
When Survivor steps down, the sparrow splits.
In mid May, we find two more dead
sparrows by the cat feeder. June arrives
and as the cat sleeps in a paper bag, a tiny
sparrow with a black bib hops from lamp
to table to cabinet and then flies out the screen.
In the morning a big beautiful beige bird
stares at me nervously through the glass door
glancing over her shoulder at Survivor
guarding her getaway in front of the screen
which flaps like a curtain in the breeze.
Photo by Al Knutson of Survivor
My husband walks out and feeds Survivor
on the floor and as he does the sparrow sprints
out the screen at lightning speed like a frequent flyer.
Later a small sparrow with a black head and bib
takes three spins past the open screen as if it’s taking
a test drive for a long flight.
One morning, as Survivor grooms in front
of the ripped screen,a black headed sparrow speeds
towards and hovers over the screen
like an experienced pilot waiting for his turn
on the runway and takes off when Survivor steps down.
On June 9th a sparrow flies freely out the screen
when the cat fails to show up for breakfast. We find signs
of an intruder and a struggle: furniture knocked over and a huge
hole in another screen but no blood, hair or body. I fear the bobcat
we chased out of the room last summer surprised Survivor
as he slept and he was dead. But I hope I am wrong.
The next day a tiny sparrow bounces haphazardly
from ceiling to floor to screen like a toy airplane
before flying out the open space. After a week
of seeing no sparrows and searching in vain for Survivor
we replace screens with heavy hearts and empty
the cat dish in the courtyard
and minutes later the food is gone.
Ten days after Survivor goes missing my husband
goes out in 110 degrees in the courtyard
to pick an Aloe Vera leaf and hears a meow
and sees Survivor blonde and bland blending
in with the clay six-foot high walls
as he curls in a corner of the courtyard.
I hear my husband say, It’s okay. You’re
safe now as he coaxes the cat to come in
and my broken heart heals. I watch hubby
head into the house for cat food and water
and a skinny shaky Survivor stumble
through the open door into the Arizona
room and look at me through glass and meow
and I can’t believe my eyes. He is really alive.
So the saga ends satisfying as a good novel.
You are a Bowerbird by Rachael Ikins
That blue diamond ring I saved up for
when I was eight or nine in a basket
at the dusty five and 10 turned my finger green,
never trusted diamonds again.
Yearned to make a necklace of paper clips
that smug little flapped box that weighted my hand
so comfortably, justify! they said, the frivolity
of such an expense. I lost my mind
in the folds of cootie catchers and gum wrapper chains.
Origami set for Christmas.
No stork ever flew out of my hands
those formal colors,
the boring instruction manual,
diagrams not half as enticing as foil-backed wrap
smelling wild and minty.
I love to make do still,
not to buy any trinket, instead
take from lost screw/nail jar
all the mismatched orphans from sized sets with
plastic partitions.
You hold one with pliers
or hemostats
or tweezers
hold it against the block of wood,
hit it with a small hammer, the one with
the unscrewable handle which hides
a two bladed screwdriver and
a wrench. Pound and shape it,
link it to another crooked nail too-bent-to-use,
but-you-saved-it-anyway
like your father with his barn full of butt ends of boards,
the cellar mayonnaise jars with glinting metal guts
screwed overhead,
Rummage through the twistems nesting in the silverware
drawer doesn’t every drawer turn into a junk drawer?
What a relief just to be able to get the closet
door latched.
You stand panting and sweaty outside it
afraid if you lay your hands on its surface
you will feel the rhythm of heartbeat
the bulge of embolism before aneurysm.
That woman who was so well organized
has gone out of fashion—I forget her name—
the Queen of Throwing Out the Superfluous
These days clutter is in, only we don’t call it that,
it is self, the travels of a life.
Make your nest thick and warm layer with
of merino wool,
silk and all the colors of an autumn maple,
the true blue of October
sky, ebony of a cat’s pupil, and
as soft as the undercoat of a cat’s belly.
Embroider knots in twisted patterns on the walls
so that you can find
your way by touch through the dark.
Don’t forget a few blue and white Bluejay feathers,
a red from a cardinal and some black left behind a molting
crow. You are a Bowerbird. Strew your nest with
beads and key-fobs
and an occasional piece of beach glass,
live in your heart and
be home.
Finch
by Laurie Byro
I’m surrounded by yellow in the burst of flight and startle,
I sing my black-tinged warnings: Don’t tread on me or my kin.
I’m your father’s voice on the porch, corn crackle as the old man
worries for his daughter. I am the burnishing of copper pipes
as he shines up that day’s work. “Beautiful” he’d whisper,
as we would take flight around him. He’d carry his tools
to the truck. Meanwhile, we carry bony twigs, leaves, strands
of hair if we’re lucky with our tools to the branch.
When my nest mate almost died, rushing the window thinking
of escape, the old man and his daughter carried him
to the edge of the wind, warming his chest. I swear
he was gone, but their breath lifted him back to
the forsythia flowers. What magic these gods possess. For a time,
my brother became a still branch. Me? A leaf, bursting with song.
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