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.