WREN SONG SEQUEL


by 
GWEN AUSTIN

Copyright 1998

Papa Wren-crafted nest
in hanging gourd planter
is empty.
Yet, there on the wind,
a wren song.

Several days hence
Mama Wren arrives.
Peering through
miniature bonsai forest,
the nest she spies.

During all our
 comings and goings,
she sits, glittering eyes
staring at mine.

Eventually I see her
flitting forth and back
always via bonsai forest,
bringing tasty tads
for wide mouths inside
the now crowded gourd.

One, two, three beaks
is all I can see.
They even open for me.
But Mama is near and scolds
me for being so bold.

Then, one fine day,
no more just eat and play.
It’s flying lesson time.

First one bit of fluff
ventures out and 
fall-flies to deck below.
Then clings another
to gourd’s stem.
How many are there 
of them?

I hustle my dogs 
and cat inside
and periodically watch
the lesson progression.

One fluff-tuft squats
on birdbath rim.
Will it fall in?

Mama Wren lands opposite,
chirps and flies
to nearby log.
Baby fly-fumbles by.

Mama flits to each in turn,
wide-spread though they be.
Tiny cheeps, Mama’s chirps
reveal them to me.

Later, I see a feathery blob
on a branch
of a rhody tree.

The blob is four huddled babes
resting from noon-day sun,
flying lessons almost done.

By eve all are gone away
to where big birds play.

The nest of
dried lavender stalks
and moss
is lonely--
again.

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