The babies are out – ugly and gray,
with loose pink gullets and random
feathers. They’re surprisingly big.
The parents seem involved in a
perpetual feeding cycle. One
stands motionless on an edge
of the deep, papery, twiggy
nest — really, at this point,
after two weeks of rain, the
thing looks like rubbish, but it’s
held through all the storms — while
the other flies away. It returns in
minutes to deposit worms and flies
into the small mouths that make a
low buzzy sound — like crickets –
in excitement.
When I stand nearby, everyone
freezes. The mother’s huge liquid
black eye is unseeing. I’ve hung
a new bird feeder on a low branch
of the dogwood in the front yard,
in case the thrushes want a treat.
Sunflower chips
and dried
mealworms.
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The collages are the work of Randel Plowman.
