The nest is gone. But not
without a trace. A dirty blotch                                                    
within a crook of cable 
stands as witness.                                          
Year on year house martins                                       
on a mission swooped deftly                        
through its funnel. Our co-tenants.              
Until the usurpation.                         
A troop of sparrows,                                       
while the martins wintered, 
commandeered it.
An era of dissension had begun.                         
They screeched day-long at decibels 
beyond the legal limit,
coercing, carping, coaxing.         
Luring from the nest
is mortal combat. And futile
while the ill-glimpsed world
looms tantamount to hell. At last,
of course, the fledglings flew
and peace descended. And we
had time to steel ourselves
for next year’s clutch.

The balcony is quiet this spring                 
but all the birds are elsewhere.                                
And when they paint the smudge             
and others sit here
will that arc of cable  
pass as laxness or be the clue  
that cites a two hand tale?                                 
One hand abandoned symmetry          
when it encountered                                                                    
a hub of strife and nurture.
And the other, guided                               
by demands of hygiene                       
scoured it from existence
with a spade.