Meanwhile, the wrens who nest
in the wooden pole that holds up
the clothesline are feeding their hatchlings.
All day long, they come and go,
poke bugs into the dark hole
where the babies eat, and grow.
The dog barks on the porch.
A great-crested flycatcher rests
for a minute on a blooming branch
of dogwood. I sit on an overturned
flowerpot in the garage, watching
through a dirty window. A chipmunk
squeals and runs away. A breeze
flashes through the grass. A red-eyed
vireo sings on and on.