My husband hung it
from an S hook, eased the curve
over the evergreen's low-hanging
branch. A slanted roof, a hole
wide enough for the small smooth
body of the wren to push through
too narrow for squirrels or jays.
We could not bear the possiblity of loss.
A hinged door, tiny latch we could open
at season's end to scrape out the nest.
We offered temptation
a feeder near the house, filled
with seeds. We did everything
right, hoping the wrens would come
and knowing the house needed
to hang long enough to blend,
so no bird would mistake it for a trap.
We knew something about adaptive
coloration. For months, we imagined
the bundle of grass and twigs, eggs
hatching, the fluttering of wings.
We listened for singing.
We had waited like this once before,
wanting some soft creature to fly in.
--Diane Lockward, What Feeds Us