Birdhouse Thoughts

In the backyard, on an old Oak tree, there is a small wooden birdhouse.
It isn’t painted, but the Sparrow family doesn’t seem to mind.
I watch them through an upstairs window, like a nosey neighbor
with my breath on the glass. I crack it an inch
to hear them sing to each other, chirping quietly back and forth,
often in short melodies.

The sound reminds me of being newly twitter pated, of May,
of a walk together as the sun was setting behind us amongst the pines,
of dinner made while the radio played in the background,
tangled up in our laughter, much like the brown bird’s calls.

I feel your arms come around my waist as you sneak up behind me
to join in the spying. We stand and watch a moment
as the humble creatures gather twigs and leaves
from the grass inside the fence to bring to their recently acquired home.

The hands that built that birdhouse are the same strong hands
that hold me close each night, playing a game of Big Spoon, Little Spoon.
Those calloused palms and fingers become mellow when intertwined with mine,
crafty to fix a leak under the sink, playful when you wrestle with the dogs,
calculated to apply a band aid to a nephew’s knee, or desperate, if animal instinct is aroused.

Before I can catch you, you rip me from my thoughts
by lifting a forefinger and tapping on the pane.
The Sparrow pair pauses in song and movement before flying back to their space,
one you created.