Mothering - Dec 29 2024

 

Mothering

Dec 29 2024

The nest was by the back door

in a high corner

just out of reach.

A sheltered spot, but hardly ideal;

yet last year, and the year before

a nest had also appeared.

So was this the same bird

whose nesting instinct drew her here,

a creature of habit

attached to this spot?

But I have no idea

what kind of bird.

Because all spring and early summer

the mother would flit away as I approached,

a sleekly tapered dart

in a flurry of wings

too fast and close to see.

I admired her tenacity,

but felt guilty

for both alarming and exhausting her,

as if it was she who rightly belonged

while the squatter was me.

Then one day

I noticed an egg

down by my feet

shattered by the fall;

a lovely blue shell, exquisitely thin

in a puddle of murky liquid

already beginning to fester.

Which would have been a chick

had the nest been better protected

and things gone differently.

A clutch of one??

Or was this the sole survivor,

because life is hard

and eggs are easy pickings.

It took a week

for the bird to abandon the nest;

the notion of death

incomprehensible,

and her mothering instinct fierce.

And now, on the cusp of a new year, it’s still there,

a little worse for wear

but surprisingly durable.

I’m not sure why I haven’t the heart

to knock it down,

but perhaps

it’s to honour her constancy

as well as her good work.

And to remember the baby bird

who never got to be;

a memento mori,

reminding me

of the contingency of life

and the certainty of loss.