Who came down first, I’ll never

know, but I suspect a

fledgling fell, down the cabin

 

chimney flue, and couldn’t, didn’t

fly, so new, the wings, the body

ready but not ready,

 

so fell.  And does a house wren

calculate the cost of not

one, but two, fledglings lost? I

 

wasn’t there. I didn’t see.

No one consulted me

about the nest. Wise enough

 

in summer, yes, without a

fire, I think I see, and yet

the fledglings fell down my cabin

 

flue, and landed hard inside

the firebox. I’m trying now

to understand the weeks of

 

open beaks that drew her down.

Trusting what humans make, down

she went into what might have been

 

an empty grate, a simple room,

a window open on

another day, but wasn’t.

 

Once trapped the three spent themselves

against the glass stove door. I

wasn’t here. I didn’t hear

 

whatever language wrens might

sing to me.  I have not learned

it. So light for flight but

 

didn’t fly. I found them later,

first one fledgling, buffeting

a small regret. But then

 

another, and the mother.

They cried, the three. They beat the glass.

I didn’t hear.  I didn’t see.