The Wren

House-WrenShe scolds me with her rasping voice
while on the deck rail her mate proclaims ownership
of my home, unaware that the deed clearly states
this land belongs to me.
The female continues to scold,
fluffing her feathers
to look larger and more menacing.
I suppose she sees me as a threat
to her new little family, hidden on top
of the deck’s supporting masonry pillars.
I know where they are.
I have heard their desperate cries for food,
I have watched her darting back and forth.

It is the way of nature
to distrust any being not like ourselves.
Even those of our own species are suspect.
Perhaps the wren remembers last year.
Did she see us cutting off the turkeys’ heads,
letting their blood to the ground below,
and plucking out their feathers?
When I was a young mother I was worried and watchful too.
If some creature came too close to my brood,
I was there, protecting and blustering, unafraid.

I wish I could tell her that I am no threat,
that I will help her guard her young.
I wish I could tell her that all too soon they will fly
and there will be nothing she can do to keep them safe.
But the wren does not need my advice;
it is enough that for now she keeps her children safe,
And that I keep my dangerous self away from her nest.

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About grannysu

storyteller, writer, poet, gardener, countrywoman
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