Motherbirds

They say catbirds and mockingbirds
are different,
but a baby is a baby.
One has just fallen from the sky during a lesson.
The dogs think this is good fortune,
having gnawed their bones to bits
and tired of my shoe.
I drop a load of laundry on the steps
when the motherbird shrills.
It is her panicked voice I hear over the dryer—
her wail above the siren, the barking.

There’s a baby in the well!

The tiny bird is under the puppy’s paw,
and a crowd has gathered:
house martins on the cable wire,
finches on the phone line,
starlings on the blue spruce.
A stray cardinal looks on from the trellis.
I chase the dogs inside, swoop up the cat,
and, in the language of frantic charades,
try to persuade the parents it’s safe.
While I shower, my baby calls.
It is her voice I hear
over the helicopter, the barking,
the mourning doves on the sill.
It is her sleepy cry
that beckons the motherbirds.

- - - - -

This poem was written just after my daughter was born, more than eight years ago. Sometimes I forget my job is not simply to stare at the birds on the line and wish to fly.