Nests

Nests

It was a wind much more suited to the barrens of January than to the first full week of  spring.  It pushed me up the front porch steps like a noisy crowd and continued to whip me around while I fumbled, regrettably gloveless, for my keys. From just behind the door, I could hear the happy snuffling of two furry dogs waiting to greet me as I reached to let myself in.  It was then that I saw it, nestled securely within the knitter’s wreath I’d made last year to brighten a winter's day.  A more perfect little house a hobbit himself could not imagine.  Wee round door, sturdy little roof.  I recognized it immediately as the well-crafted cottage of the wren.

It seemed the grey feathered couple had used our front door as a support and fashioned a home for themselves like none other I’d seen.  The wreath, being crafted of yarn balls, pine cones and moss, gave them ample and snug shelter from the weather in addition to  bestowing the sort of curb appeal sure to elicit envy in the robin and the jay.  Enchanted at the sight of such a beautiful abode, I stood there for a few long moments before I began to see the flaw in the otherwise sublime design.  Built as it was, squarely in the middle of our front door, wouldn’t it be slightly disconcerting, if not downright dizzying, to have one’s home hurtle through space each time that door was opened?

Later that afternoon The Songwriter and I sat discussing the problem.

Me:  “Well, I suppose we could always just use the back door for a while.”

Him:  “Not an option.  Besides, what about people who come to visit?”

Me:  “Perhaps they’ll abandon the nest.  They’ve already been bounced around a good bit today already”.

Him:  “She won’t leave it she’s already laid her eggs.”

Together, we ventured out on the porch.  The little wren, no doubt seriously harried now, once again flew from the depths of her cozy home as the door was opened.  Feeling like the worst of trespassers, the two of us peeked inside.  There in the light of a setting sun sat five tiny eggs, each one bluer than Wonderland.  Sighing, we stood back and stared at each other.

“Leave it to me”, said The Songwriter,

 as he set off to the back garden with a glint in his eye.  

An hour later, obviously feeling quite proud, he escorted me out on the front porch to inspect his handiwork.  The wreath had been moved.  Measuring carefully, he’d rehung it from a red wire securely suspended from the painted ceiling, at precisely the same height as before.  With the brick wall as its new backdrop, the nest was more protected than ever, even if the wreath looked a tad eccentric hanging there. 

 We waited to see if the wren would return.  

The wait wasn’t long.  

Watching from the window, we saw her fly in as soon as we went back indoors. 

There are many squirrel nests in the tall trees that encircle our cottage, much to Apple’s chagrin. 

 A family of owls frequents the back garden.  Their offspring, furry-feathered and strange,
rock back and forth on the poplar limbs.

Rabbits nestle deep down neath the ivy; the bandit Raccoon burrows nearby.  

And now a family of wrens are at home, warm and dry, on the porch.

  I thought of them all as I snuggled down in the sheets last night.  Rain was pouring down; an occasional rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance.  Edward heaved a heavy sigh as he placed his big head atop my feet.  Sound asleep and no doubt dreaming of the squirrels, Apple grumbled softly from her spot in the window seat.

So many creatures call this place home.

Happy to share my nest,  I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

And I bet I wasn’t the only one.