Friday May 4th 2012 Tim
Of those nests
The Artist weaved during the hiatus she calls Winter, one is now
occupied by Chickadee. It used to be barren of shelter out there
where a Hawthorn grows, and Chickadees are birds that flit. Not
for them the long flight. Their distant horizon is probably no
more than twenty yards, and there had better be reward at the end of so
unnecessary an adventure.
Then when the children
come, they'll move around as a gang, emboldened by numbers, make very
loud noises for creatures so small. And a person has to think
maybe an older Chickadee is either hard of hearing or stubborn. And I
guess too that when time came for us to leave the trees, we had
stubbornness between us. There's a value to staying put, digging in and
shouting louder, otherwise nowhere is safe and we roam like ghosts. Then
a being says to itself, "That looks like a nest!" And usually with
nesting there's a second opinion.
Amongst Chickadees, I am told, it's the girl who most
likely selects the nest site, and he'll offer a structural opinion, because
it's his job to help her prepare the site. The work of making it comfy is
all hers, she'll find fur from the briars and bits of string. And I'd
hate to make that leap which suggests that in this new frontier of Hawthorn
that pre-weave, she's beginning to think him almost useless.
it's the boy who'll throw a few twigs together, jam something like moss into
it, add a leaf, then he'll call out as though he's accessed perfection.
She'll trip by, if only to shut him up, and I have decided she mostly says
no, because in the barn there are probably four or five very feeble and rather poorly
located attempts at seduction and on the front porch there have been at