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They have it down to a science.

The Empty Nest

The fat man perched on the roof
of the bird house and sang
for all he was worth,
his cacophonous screeching
sounding like bad trumpet notes
piercing the wind.

He was persistent,
standing with his forehead
tufts sticking up and out
prancing on the bird house roof,
screeching til he got an answer.
At last she came.

She was young and slender,
shooting through the sparrow hole,
to check things out.
She emerged with a chirp
and they went to work
grasping straw in their beaks.

They wove a luxurious nest
and she insisted on
interior decorating.
He brought her bluebird feathers,
bubble gum foil and then
he mounted her on the fence.

She didn't mind as he thrust
himself into her for about
thirty seconds, his eyes
gleaming an ecstasy,
she – looking ahead
without expression.

She took up residence
in the bird house and
busied herself pegging
the bluebird feather
to the ceiling and foil
to the wall.

The bird house became
a Sistine Chapel – a collage
dome of straw, feathers
and paper scraps tacked
with the inspired efficiency
of a female madness.

She laid three eggs,
white and petite
and sat on them and
went in and out,
feeding. He came around
sometimes and screeched.

The eggs turned dark
and she sat diligently,
poking her beak out
of the sparrow hole.
I would come home
and she'd fly away.

A few weeks went by
and I pointed my flashlight
into the sparrow hole
surprising her.
She let out a tired peep
and flew out.

The eggs were there,
dark and lifeless.
I hoped I had not
caused her to abandon
them. She returned
shortly.

He was not to be seen
any more as the bird house
swung in the wind,
hanging on my porch,
she became accustomed
to my guardianship.

I felt like an uncle,
peeking again with
the flashlight. There
was a naked infant sparrow,
looking at the ceiling hungry,
opening a yellow rimmed beak.

The infant sat in the nest
for a week then ventured
to sit on the edge
of the sparrow hole
focusing on his brave
new world with yeasty eyes.

His grasp was shaky
but he held his balance
on the edge of the wall
flexing his gelatinous wings,
he let out a peep,
then peeped again.

She fed him bits
of something barely seen
as she put her beak into his.
He was fattening quickly
and peeping constantly,
restless in the sparrow hole.

I reached out to touch
the chick feathers
of his breast –
a bonding gesture but
stopped for fear of
violating the natural order.

When would he fly?
He seemed to be a male,
fat and confident,
with the chest of his father.
I awaited the ceremony
of solo flight.

But I missed it.
They were gone when I
came home, the chick and
mother leaving an empty nest
without ceremony for an
adulthood achieved in one month.

Sparrow chicks flew from
their nests on schedule,
to the day, flaring wings
in aerobatic flight
like little F-16's, crashing
and splashing in dust with delight.

Walking across the porch
another day, a hiss of wind
blew as a little storm stirred up
by a fast wing tearing the air
brushing past me.
I was buzzed.

Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
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