Birdhouses
Painted gourds hanging from the eaves
are colorful invitations to winged migrants
newly arrived from winter down south.
Here, I whisper, nest here.
Dried grasses, bits of string, some cotton
fluff are strewn among the new green of
perennials breaking the garden’s surface,
perfect soft bedding for tiny fragile eggs.
Here, I whisper, nest here where
I can see you from my kitchen window.
Like a homeowner with a house for sale
I watch for prospective takers.
As each tiny bird comes to inspect, I wonder,
will this be the one who likes the neighborhood?
I hope for finches or wrens, an oriole would be lovely,
but a common house sparrow will be fine.
In the early morning pre-dawn I hear them singing.
I cannot stop myself from whistling in reply,
hoping they will understand my message:
here, I whistle, nest here.
Poem by Ellen DeRosia
