refusing to give up the throne that is my porch
I wipe the yellow dust from the table surface
wash my hands so as not to rub the dust in my eyes
a spring habit as nature spews her love all over
my eyes catch sight of our porch dweller
my eyes catch sight of our porch dweller
the bird who thrice tried to build her nest
above our door rests, nest-less
on the ledge of a column above the grill
she is not there every night
only when weather threatens to happen
tonight the clouds with their dark temper
stomp across a starless sky
there is a pang of guilt in the moment
but it passes quickly
I know the nature of mothers
know that if she had built her nest
in that location when the eggs hatched
we would not be able to pass without attack
protecting home and hearth is what most mothers do
I do not believe she is haunting me
she is not Poe's raven quoting the same word
over and over in an attempt to rid me of my sanity
but I wonder, if my removal of her attempts
to create a home for her one day eggs robbed her
of a family then I wonder if it's the males who build the nest
and I have mis-gendered this bird as well as
leaving it homeless
there are so many trees nearby
wouldn't trees be better real estate
for winged ones to occupy
isn't that where birds should build
not on a porch over the grill that will soon bellow smoke
and the sizzle of meat
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