Nest Watcher

Nest Watcher

I.

Blackbird struts into my yard:
cocky, arrogant, a delinquent breaking curfew,
breaking law, ready to break an egg or mother’s heart
yellow eyes full with nefarious intent
glow against iridescent head feathers

Father robin positions himself
between Blackbird and Mother robin
who sits on throne of daily turned, warm, ready eggs

I (who have watched the nest building,
the laborious laying of four indescribably blue eggs,
the patient vigilant incubation)
am sickened when a gang of hungry
invincible blackbirds joins the first

Running into the yard I clap and shout
and scare off the predators
they take flight, fleeing the scene
in clumsy reverse of choreographed confetti

Inside I worry that I’ll not have the fortitude,
or time, freedom, omnipresence or unthwartable maternal love
to keep vigil over this nest
I worry that the robins cannot go it alone

A cliché in cross stitch, hanging beside my front door
temporarily comforts: God watches over every nest.


II.

Later that week the hatchlings are born
pink fresh like a spring peony,
as delicate and vulnerable
I’m elated, a viable successful midwife to birds
Mother and Father robin appear
anthropomorphically and really proud

The Blackbird returns

Alerted by Mother and Father robins’ squawks,
I catch Blackbird looming large on nest edge
hunched to dine and dash
air breaks with the swoop of black wings
and the nest is full of emptiness

Where are you Nest Watcher?
my soul screams already maddened, jaded, cynical from
middle aged, never-hatched, personal disappointments
and losses illuminated by the sight of soft
grass and hair with not an egg to tuft


III.

It is quiet and feather free at my front door
the robin parents are gone

From the Alberta pine I remove the abandoned nest
which is well made, a piece of natural art in my hands
I set the nest on my fireplace mantle
and remember the robins, Blackbird

For a second I want to shake a fist
at the Nest Watcher, but
my infuriation at the watcher’s impotence has mellowed,
crashed into the acquiescence of acceptance

I pour a cup of coffee
and sit in my favorite chair to consider the intricacies of
nest watching (and the food chain)

A familiar grackle pierces my ponderings
I look out the window
There is Blackbird
bending over nest with squirmy meal hanging out of beak

For the first time I wonder who it is who watches
Blackbird’s Nest