The Martin House
Here by the pond the
mosquitoes need quelling.
A high-rise birdhouse is
the requisite dwelling.
But try as I might the
squatters come flying
And now there is mayhem
– it’s all very trying.
There’s indignant chatter
instead of song,
from the martin-less
house above my lawn.
The starling struts
through the sparrows’ parlor,
ignoring their pleas,
ignoring their holler.
A piece of their bedding
he holds in his beak.
His head’s cocked askew
to measure their pique.
On to the front porch he
pushes his way
and spits out their
mattress in order to say:
“Birds of a feather may
all get along,
but my elegant black
trumps your dowdy brown.
Pack up your eggs and
pack up your straw!
I’m soon moving in with
my elegant frau.”
I could force a truce in this feathery
fray
by removing the roost to
stow it away.
But I’ve taken a pass on
the martins’ sagacity.
(They stay well away
from such rapacity.)
No, I’ll go on from season to season,
watching this skirmish
for no purposeful reason,
except to muse at these
feathered pairs,
squabbling over what
isn’t theirs.
Catherine Wilson
