For the last few days
on and off
the Eastern Phoebe
by our house
has been collecting bits of this and that
mere strands really
piling them at the base
of the site
she (I presume, for where is he?)
has chosen as the foundation
for her nest.
The family seat.
I am not quite sure
but it seems she can’t decide
between a spot by the front door
or one round the side.
And all this indecision has me worried.
Because it makes me ask:
What if she’s like me?
All fidgety? Perplexed?
Unable to remember which nest is which and which is best?
Just what’s her game, I want to know.
In case there’s meaning there.
For me.
Supposedly, I am old.
And in a position to observe.
The old me knows Nature
doesn’t play the game.
She’s got no plan.
Doesn’t second guess.
She’s pure energy, you see.
All verrrrrrrb.
And I admire Nature for her power and beauty.
For her ability to build up and tear asunder in the same breath.
I am in awe of her in-ex-plic-a-bility.
Never. The. Less.
When I was young
I painted a face on the sun,
the wind with a scowl,
the moon half asleep.
I believed when streams babbled they were trying to tell me something.
That when bears yawned, they were bored out of their minds.
I feared snakes because of their ability to think evil thoughts (and act upon them).
And I longed to be more like the fox: always looking for an easy way in.
And out.
To me, the cat looked down.
The dog looked up.
And my caged canary, poor little thing, sang solely for my pleasure.
But the years have taught me much.
And I have learned that Nature has no face.
No personality.
No good moods or bad.
She’s nothing like me.
Still, I hope my little Phoebe has a plan.
But if she does not, nor should I.
It’s certainly worth a try.
