THE REBUILT NEST

She walks the woodlot margin before light,
counting the tilt of nests toward water,
the narrow entrance,
the hush a warbler makes
of being watched.
She has been here longer than the eggs.

When the warbler lifts
the alien oval
over the rim,
there is no violence.
Only procedure.
The cowbird returns
patient,
exact.
The warbler builds again.

I put my hand in the creek
before opening anything this morning.
The cold takes it whole.
Under my palm the current
goes where it has always gone,
unconsulted.

Stones take what passes,
edges dulled, marks taken in,
shapes left by what struck them.
Water does not stay.

Greased poles glint above the scrub.
Nothing climbs them.
Nests go missing anyway,
and mouths open wider
than what can receive them.

Now in the warm cup
of the rebuilt nest
something is being fed.
A red throat opens
wider each hour
than the structure that holds it.
And the warbler keeps bringing more.

— Jean Kiernan Detjen