First draft was written on an overcast Sunday. I am now working on my ga-zillionth edit. My turn for constructive criticism. This will be a work in progress as I am a perfectionist.
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Adown yon winding road
To circling cul-de-sac.
Near grey garage door lintel,
Home, sweet home.
She leaves no forwarding address when her offspring fledge in June. But for the better part of April and May, "Mama" Carolina Wren and her lyrical life-partner have condescended to rear their brood in close proximity to two-legged uprights.
Unable to imagine what Heaven will be like, I catch a wee glimpse each morning the Carolina sings beyond my open window. Not for nothing are Carolinas nicknamed the Mocking Wren, for their repertoire is "note"-worthy: Sometimes it's "Teacher! Teacher!" Other mornings it's a rollicking "Tea-ket-tle, Tea-ket-tle!" or penetrating "Sweet-sweet-sweet-sweet-sweeeeet." Perhaps my favorite call is "Sweet-heart! Sweet-heart!" where "heart" is lent a higher inflection, resembling an importuning lover.
What could be finer than lying in bed, semi-conscious, as twilight gives way to dawn and hearing all of feathered creation begin a frantic, spontaneous chorus of thanksgiving for the new day? Then transcending the blended warbling erupts the most liquid, throaty solo from the vicinity of the garage. Each note sung with conviction, courage, and utter joy.
Joy?
Happiness flits in and out of winged and wingless existence, dependent upon happenstance for its cue to stay or flee. Good times end. Bad times end-ure. Like brackish waters, the bitter . . . the sweet . . . they mingle.
Except when a pair of Carolina Wrens, Heaven's messengers, carol joy . . . to the world. A weary, worrying world. Audible joy meant to give even the cynic of cynics pause. The riddle is, how can Carolinas capture notes of pure joy when life is not always joyful? For Carolinas have suffered their share of hardships in the 15 years they have made my family's acquaintance. . . .
Carefully they constructed a garland nest of twigs, green moss, and the fine webbing of decayed oak leaves, all woven together with remarkable symmetry. Secretively "Mama" laid one small speckled egg per day, for a total of five. Freely relinquishing her liberty to TheGreatOutThere, she patiently incubated her clutch beneath warm downy breast. Her companion gustily serenaded mother and unborn.
Like fighter jets utilizing the glare of dawn's light for a pre-emptive strike, a fleet of starlings descended upon our dingle. The mournful keening of a Red-bellied Woodpecker validated the enemy's successful invasion of her "hollowed" home. Soon after, several starlings postured aggressively at the garage entrance. Taunting bullies. Hissing. Mewing. Flapping outstretched ebony wings with ugly intent.
When the commotion ceased, they left an unoccupied aerie in their wake. No Mama keeping sentinel. I missed our friendly, silent eye contact, and hoped she would return. But starling intimidation began anew on the morrow. My high-strung wrens fled.
Another year when starling rogues weren't prominent, Mama's careful investiture in homebuilding and egg-laying were mysteriously halted yet again. An intruder had violated the sanctity of her dwelling. I examined the delicate, abandoned eggs. Two tiny pin-size holes, perhaps a half-inch apart, had broken through one eggshell. Had a mouse or snake tried to ingest the eggs only to be scared away? Was this the signature of some avian competitor? The enemy's aborted attempt to steal eggs, in domino fashion, aborted my Joy-birds' plans to rear young.
Regardless of changing circumstances, when summer yields to frigid temperatures, the Joy-birds' caroling abides constant, for they have learned that ruptured ceiling insulation in ye olde garage keeps winter's chill at bay. If I sleep in and fail to rumble open the garage door at first light, beautiful accolades LOUDLY echo in the garage (immediately above my bedroom) to remind me of MY duty. Our impertinent "houseguests" have tasked their landlord to raise and lower the castle drawbridge in a timely manner; failure to do so results in amplified solo performances. If my bare feet stumble too slowly across cold, cement floor, the Carolinas emphasize their wishes by lightly bopping the garage windows. Sly hints are not their way.
Bold white eyeliner above each eye accentuates the "chay" (Heb. "vibrant life") sparkling in their small intelligent eyes. Where other songbirds politely perch on the birdfeeder ledge, Carolinas wiggle inside the transparent globe to march around its confining parameters, enthusiastically tossing safflower seeds to the ground beneath.
Bold spirits compressed into deceivingly diminutive frames. Courageous parents in the face of personal loss. From where do your songs of uncommon Joy originate?
"Joy is distinct not only from pleasure in general but even from aesthetic pleasure," wrote C.S. Lewis in his autobiographical work, Surprised by Joy; "It must have the stab, the pang, the inconsolable longing."
What unattainable joy does a mocking wren yearn for? Perhaps the "inconsolable longing" is but Delay in disguise? And so my feathered one sings a reminder to hope.
Joy Unspeakable is coming.
Airedale
"But now ask the beasts, and they will teach you; And the birds of the air, and they will tell you.... Who among all these does not know that the hand of ADONAI has done this, in Whose hand is the life of every living thing, and the breath of all mankind?" Job 12:7,9-10
[This message was edited by Airedale on 05-13-01 at 08:35 AM.]
