Nestling

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They hatched today. Last night 
when I peeked among the apples 
they were eggs, four, end to end 
among twigs and scraps and a twitch 
of white yarn looped up and around, 
an inadvertent infinity. 

Jamie called 
last night to say he was doing well 
and for her not to worry. 

This afternoon I stood on tiptoes 
at the patio’s edge and saw her tail 
upright, white striped with charcoal gray, 
upright and alert. I backed away and 
moved to the other side of the concrete 
slab to finish the barbecue. 

Jamie was going to come by for dinner 
but did not. His mother thinks his car 
broke down again, but I don’t think 
that was the reason. 

After dinner, while we were cleaning up, 
I glanced at the nest once more. She was 
perched above my head on the power line, 
and this time when I leaned into the apples 
she shrilled at me—and then I saw four tiny 
bits of grayish fluff, four sharp orange throats 
stretched taut and expectant. It startled me. 
She shrilled again, and I stepped back 
into the shade. 

Tonight Jamie called but would 
not speak to me. His mother cried. I waited, 
but he would not speak through 
the static and the silence of 
the telephone.

Sitting in my office, I can hear them, subtle
chirrup just beneath the Mozart concerto
playing on the tape to ward away the silence
and the memories. 
Their infant song hangs softly, 
fragile on the air, underneath the mellow horns.
I shall leave the window open for a moment more,
then slide it shut, shut out their nascent song.