Suburban Woman Faces Minor Danger
A bulb exploded over my head today.
Glass flew like vacant nests blown from tree tops
by late autumn storms. They drop to the ground
and roll like lost bowler hats down the street.
You cannot move a nest. I tried one spring.
Robins were building on a light fixture’s flat top
by the front door. I picked up the loose stuff,
turned to see dad on the lawn, beak straw-filled.
They never used the moved nest. Was there time
to rebuild? Could the female wait to lay
or were the eggs left for cat food or raccoon?
I put a lump of driftwood on the light.
It discouraged future nesting, but guilt persists.
My homeless birds, left like refugees
from explosions more frightening than raining glass.
Mary C. Rowin writes from her home in Middleton, WI. Her poems have been published by the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poetry, Stoneboat, Solitary Plover, Mariposa, Zo Magazine, Blue Heron and by the Science Fiction Poetry Association. Mary’s work has appeared in several anthologies, including The Ariel Project, and Anthology of Poetry and Art, sponsored by the Chequamegon Bay Arts Council.
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