Accident

The birdhouse blew down
in last night’s storm, brought to earth
in the groaning of winds, the creaking
of the maple tree whose branches
had held it firm for a decade of summers.

Surveying the damage of fallen boughs
and snapped twigs all around, we found
the avian domicile unbroken, lying on its side
with a casual nonchalance, as if this small
mishap were meant to appear in the playbook
of backyard mulch. We lifted it up

from the surprised arms of hostas,
and fastened the hook to a branch thinner,
more secure, to swing by its chain
in the breeze. The wren has already
discovered its new location, continues to carry
bits of dried grass into the small aperture,
where who knows what are nesting, where
her plans for eggs and scrawny, wet young
hatch now, nudged by a lesser wind.

I watch her flit anew in the vague
citrusy smell of sunlight, in hopes
of ubiquitous chirping, a new flutter
of little wings, as this dun-colored bird enters
the same old “o” in the mouth of morning,
in the side of the wooden cube painted white
with its brown roof sloping, waiting.

And when the sun wanes in the west,
the moon will come out to bless
this miniscule edifice with a special
love for survivors of everyday woe,
the daily disasters that upend
whatever objects or living beings
happen to be in the path of natural accident
or human malice, and, knowing
the drastic imperfection of things,
turns darkness into light.