The Phoebe

The phoebes have been nesting here for as long as I can remember. My father used to complain about them, though my mother defended them. He thought they were messy, and they are a bit. But they are indefatigable gnatcatchers, and they are cheerful, sociable birds. My mother liked them, and they have always been here. They build a nest on the porch, on top of the molding over the doorway, on the far edge, in the most remote corner of the porch. The nest is modest, made of mud and twigs, mostly, but they finish it, beautifully, with a coverlet of fine moss.

Now the female is brooding her eggs. When I come out on the porch I see her there, from the corner of my eye. I don't look at her directly, I don't want to alarm her. Her soft greys melt into the shadowy reaches of the dark porch wall. She sits motionless and brave, nestled deep into her refuge, alert, her bright dark eye watching. Outside, her mate perches on a branch of the ash tree, repeating his name. "Fee-bee," he says, over and over, "Fee-bee." But she says nothing. She sits still and silent, the eggs beneath her heavy and full, gravid with life.

June 2, Treetop