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  • The Nest

    The Nest

    As freezing seasons ease to springs,
    the breezy, warming weather brings
    singing friends on feathered wings,
    attending to most wondrous things.

    They soar above the watersheds,
    forests, towns and farming steads—
    plying evenings’ sunset reds
    to seek their perfect nesting beds.

    Steep up under a cliff-face ledge;
    deep in a rambling, brambly hedge;
    amuck in a rusty bucket of dredge;
    in a dusty barn with horse and sledge;

    in a nick or jag on craggy rock;
    under a rickety, saggy dock;
    tucked behind the old tower clock;
    high in a tree with friends of the flock,

    A bird will build—by grand design—
    a crib of twigs and sullied twine,
    weaving weathered sprigs of vine
    with heather, fur, or dandelion.

    It bows and bends young sapling sticks,
    sews in yarn or stems it picks—
    affixing these by subtle tricks
    to bridges, eaves or chimney bricks;

    and may, in weeks or in a day,
    mix in whiskers wound with hay;
    moss and roots and flicks of clay;
    and muddy shoots, all knit to stay.

    The task, attended to with grace—
    bending bedding into place—
    slows while pairing birds embrace
    wooing charm and willing chase—

    as birds of feather race to learn
    for whom their hearts may sweetly yearn;
    if this—by tether—two discern,
    together—to the nest—they turn;

    he, to help fulfil her need
    for favored grub on which to feed—
    a beetle or a centipede,
    inchworm, slug or flower seed;

    so she—as guard—may nearby stay
    to ward, and safely keep at bay,
    those who creep and swoop in prey
    to steal their lovely eggs away:

    a polecat, rat or wolverine;
    raccoon, bat or peregrine;
    a porcupine who’s feeling lean—
    hungry, everyone is keen:

    its claws and jaws might get the batch
    in that cradle bound of thatch—
    who now within their dwellings scratch,
    and stretch their cracking shells to hatch—

    a nest with a middle of downy chicks—
    wings still a riddle of bony sticks;
    huddling, cuddling and taking licks;
    uttering coos and chirpy clicks;

    chicks whose meager, crowing cry
    grows eager—cawing—knowing why:
    time suggests they go and try
    to test beyond the nest—the sky.

    They stumble up to tumble down;
    thumping, bumping breast or crown;
    bumbling flight—first time around—
    but landing soundly on the ground.

    With hopping play and practice there,
    flitting, fanning wings with flair,
    and daring glides—not far, but fair,
    baby birds will take the air.

    So, one by one—in happy fun—
    each tries a trot to a flapping run,
    and lifts off, leaving all or none,
    and family nesting work is done,

    until sweet songs we hear again—
    when long the year ‘til spring has been—
    belong to them returning then,
    to build their homes to settle in.

    and then, will each endeavor best—
    in season’s time, with little rest,
    while ever serving love’s behest—
    to build a very clever nest.

    JPT April 2018
    Last edited by John P. Turner; 03-07-2020, 11:50 AM.

  • #2
    This was sublime! And I loved the bouncy rhythm. Truly wondrous. That ending is a well rounded one, too. I loved the theme, the diction, construction, punctuation. Lot of detail, thanks for sharing; a homerun first post!

    Welcome!

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    • #3
      Impressive
      and newly welcome

      Comment


      • #4
        Thank you both. I found a nest fallen from a tree. I marveled at it's nature!
        btw, you might enjoy A Time to Build, which is also up

        Comment


        • #5
          JPTurner - I enjoyed your story and the visual impact of your descriptive words. Good writing and well done. Namyh

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