As freezing seasons ease to springs,

the breezy, warming weather brings

singing friends on feathered wings,

attending to most wondrous things.

 

They soar around 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, 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 loves’ behest—

to build a very clever nest.

 

John Paul Turner III

12/15