I watch you, redbreast, perched at sunrise
on thinnest branch—atop the birch
wavering in the brightening breeze.
Again and again you take flight
a short distance
a fool’s errand
an awful sound—the thumping
against my window.
Back to lime-leafed safety you wing.
Then once more
lift off into your reflection.
Is it mate or nesting place you seek?
It’s spring—all must be readied,
shreds of dried grass, tinsel bits and twigs
woven into high-hung homes
sheltering pale blue eggs.
Soon, you will find mate, build cradle,
settle into your creation
waiting through tender nights.
A quiet advent
I know not where it will be—or when
tiny fissure first, then downy chicks
reaching up, beaks open in soft chirps
all hidden from our eyes.
But it will be—this spring
one of many hallowed births
through meadow and wood.
And all must be readied.
