I Whispered a Prayer for the Life I Held in My Hands

Gunnen: Dutch: Finding happiness in someone’s happiness because you love them so much

Dateline: Cherry Hill, NJ July 7, 2022

The padre in me sensed something was wrong. When the outside — my garden — is your own Eden, You have a responsibility to the children of that Eden — The birds — my Eves and my Adams — And me, a softhearted, secular St. Francis of Assisi.

With twenty-three bird houses, and six feeders, My garden during an Edenic morning is a chanting choir of chicks — (Or the ravenous warblings of the fledglings) That no church choir could compare.

But this sound was different. A morning of mourning? A time of terror? The full-throated bleeding and pleading of parents — In panic nurturing — A tandem, two-alarm call to arms — to wings — to song! To fight the advance of an invasion.

With the siren call, or a lit lantern from Tower, North — I burned myself with strong black tea — The roiling boil still too hellacious to savor — Even for me, a leather tongue — And I left my labor and leisure to look into The Troubles in Zion.

It’s then I found the source of the skirmish — A birdhouse down — fallen — seemingly once secured with Velcro Strips — In the tangle of Tiger lilies and swamp lilies once a regal purple — And I prayed there were no eggs or babies in that house fallen. I felt, after all, as the landlord, a responsibility for my tenants — my children.

I leaped over the rhododendron like hurdles — and seized the house. Inside, a few white eggs, still nestled as nothing had been disturb’d. But I was disturbed. These were finches. How many generations of finches have found freedom And liberation in my liberal dominion over the decade?

I had been meaning to move the house — really. I had purchased a wooden pole — But there didn’t seem to be a rush. A week prior, the first house had fallen, but casualties? There were none. So my laziness and absence of care — I curse’d — And whispered a prayer for the life in my hands.

With hands shaking and nerves frayed — Like a doctor working to save a life under duress — I kept selecting the wrong screws — too long — too short — Too small — And I had no attendee to curse for the wrong forceps.

But with the house firmly attached, I dug a hole, As I should have done as a caretaker of this Eden — And with stakes, steadied the house in the ground — Between the knot and roots of understanding, but disturb’d lilies.

With my tea now tepid, I sat and waited. Would the parents return? Would the eggs live only to die upon hatching? Was that more cruel than allowing Nature to find food in those eggs? Was the scent of human blood too much to bear For the returning parents — watching from afar — From that limb on the Crepe myrtle, or on that lone pine, Or veil’d with weeping in the jumble jungle of interwoven wisteria?

Like a caretaker, with more faith than logic, I whispered from my Adirondack chair — From the scene of calamity — far remov’d — Hoping for the parents to return.

I also said I was sorry. “I thought the 50 lb. outside Velcro strips would hold.”

But then I found clues — bluejay feathers by each house — And the first house even had a feather blue stuck between the crevice No force — no wind — no gravity — has the power of hunger Equivalent from a bluejay sensing a feast.

Could I even imagine the fear — the shear fear of finding my house gone! My children buried inside? And a Wyvern dragon — a Ringwraith — or a Dementor — Flying overhead — dressing for the Banquet of the Young?

And then —

Then —

Wait!

A baby head was poking out! Why didn’t I know any had hatched?

There was an actual hatched finch inside — this whole time — Even during the triage in my garage. Was that the pleasant smell — sweet, almost cheesy — the smell of newborns!

That head — peaking from a portal onto a New World One that had seemed to fall like the great Fall — Sent a parent back as if to rescue from what had a grave seem’d — The children had been saved — resurrected from death certain.

Then the chirping! Would the parents think it was some miracle from God?

VOICE OF GOD: No, my son, it’s about being your brother and sister’s keeper — and keeper of all Creation. Finding meaning in life by sustaining life. Hasn’t this brought you happiness? Hasn’t this brought meaning to this day, my friend? BTW, bluejays are beautiful, but NASTY!

VOICE OF BOWNE: So right, God! Sparrows, too, but bluejays have weight! I took a pic of a bluejay looking down at me. I think he was up to something against me. Maybe he was aiming. LOL.

VOICE OF GOD: I have been dodging angry mockingbirds in my yard.

VOICE OF BOWNE: You, too, have to deal with the tribulations of Nature?

VOICE OF GOD: Just because it’s creation, doesn’t mean I can avoid the demeanor of the created. A scorpion, after all, stings, right? It’s in its Nature.

VOICE OF BOWNE: Wear a helmet for those mockingbirds!

VOICE of GOD: LOL! Thy will shall be done!

VOICE OF BOWNE: Good one! I always knew you had a sense of humor!

And with that, the parents came back. The finches returned to feeding. And all was right, again, for now, in Eden, a battleground for forces and lives all natural, neither good or evil.

My black tea was cold, but so warm was my heart.

Read more from Paper Poetry from Walter Bowne:

PS: Editorial Note : Paper poetry conducts themed poetry series every month. This month’s theme is of Dutch origin, Gunnen: If you want to be a part of this, kindly read this.