I checked daily for
weeks on our baby wrens
in the garage
on the old desk
destined for Goodwill
but when I got
home from work
the nest was destroyed
pulled into the yard
a broken candelabra
shattered on the
concrete floor beneath
something got our babies
probably the feral cat
the black one that
comes in at night
trips the light
prowls around on the hunt
I tiptoe sometimes
down the hall to watch it
in its silent quest for a
field mouse
something found these
baby wrens I’d
eagerly spied on
from eggs to
nestlings, almost
fledglings,
their tiny mouths
opening for worms
at the slightest
bump or noise
in nature’s cruel twist
they became
the worms
Rest in peace, little ones.
Common Threads 