Nature and the Environment Feature

By Bill Wilson

One day, on your way to the garden,
an Eastern Phoebe sits atop a metal post.
Bobbing tail and tell-tale song,
you pause while she waits
for food to emerge
from within the rows.

Another day on the familiar path, 
you watch her labor 
to gather a nest, mud-splattered window ledge
measures her work as back and forth she dashes 
with her mate, hurrying to build a nursery.

Days later, you stroll in the quiet morning 
and she sits stoically on her eggs, 
head and tail visible, vigilant
body neatly tucked down and away
and out of view.

Another day, commotion; 
dawn broken by piercing cries
of barely-feathered hatchlings 
bellowing newborn hunger,
and you steal a closer look 
while mom gathers their meal.

This continues until one morning
you edge along 
and sense the silence is too soon.
A few steps ahead, scattered brown feathers
litter the grass along the fence, 
and you pause.
And your heart skips a beat,
and you take a deep breath,
and you close your eyes to convince yourself,
but you open them to the hard truth of this otherwise perfect day,
and you remove your cap as if entering a sacred space,
and slowly, oh so slowly,
walk the difficult walk 
to five orphaned, lifeless nestlings, 
gaping beaks screaming silently, necks straining skyward 
as a gentle breeze tickles their fuzzy little crowns.       
And you gently place them in your hand,
and return to your familiar walk in a different way,
and you open the garden gate,
and you open the earth,
and you bury them in the shade of the weeping willow,
and you begin to breathe again.