Laid round bare shoulders, winter white,
a veil, with diamonds dripping,
she steps slowly forward.
All stand.
And in the bower, birds.
So much of nature’s behavior is innate.
From the intricate weaving of spiders to the miles traveled by birds, alone, over time-worn migration routes—their inborn understanding of a complex task defies explanation.
An act more deeply embedded than thought.
I stand in awe.
So capable, in their short lives, I forget much must also be learned by the very young.
Sometimes, it seems-- the simplest of things.
Last week, I watched the wrens lead their young out into the world—from their nest beneath the chainsaw that rests on the table just inside the barn door.
Four small, still tail-less copies of the adults cautiously emerged into the light. White eye-stripes marking young faces that, just sixteen days before, had yet to be seen.
Following the trilling call of their parents from the yard beyond.
Their bravery, rewarded with food.
In a short while, one successfully skirted the end of the woodpile, and tucked himself safely beneath the red canoe across the lawn.
A fat, juicy beetle for you!
But the remaining three, lingered in the doorway, confused by the wheelbarrows and rakes and piles of wood and stone.
Every little crevice was investigated.
Every log, looked under--and over.
None led out.
A wall of wood stood between them and dinner.
It rained for most of the afternoon, and I could hear their parents’ continuing trill, even from indoors, as I fussed in the kitchen.
From a branch just beyond the pile, she called to them, flitting back and forth, attentively—while they tried to press themselves between every log.
There was no secret passage.
By evening, all was quiet.
The day's lesson, at last, had been learned.
At end of the woodpile, is the beginning of the world.
The chain saw sat idle for a few days—resting under the cover of the barn, on a small table, just inside the wide wooden door. It didn’t take but a moment for the wrens to find it—and tuck a nest beneath, bounded at the edges by an unruly pile of chain and several scraps of wood.
For days she sat quietly inside, barely seen in the dark barn, her head low, rust-colored feathers matching the dried leaves perfectly.
A mother’s eye watching my every passing move.
Five speckled eggs, safely warm.
Two weeks later they've hatched, and the job of feeding begins.
Bare pink bodies, wearing nothing but dark fluff on their heads, snuggle, face-forward, waiting for their parents’ return. Motionless and quiet, in their warm fuzzy hats, they, too, are barely seen.
It’s an endless procession.
First, Mama with a grub, then Papa with a beetle.
They hop to the small opening and wait.
With each arrival, the nest comes alive.
Five gaping orange mouths, hungrily open.
Finally, color and life.