A Parade for the Fourth

The chain saw sat idle for a few days—resting under the cover of the barn, on a small table, just inside the wide wooden door. It didn’t take but a moment for the wrens to find it—and tuck a nest beneath, bounded at the edges by an unruly pile of chain and several scraps of wood.

For days she sat quietly inside, barely seen in the dark barn, her head low, rust-colored feathers matching the dried leaves perfectly.


A mother’s eye watching my every passing move.
Five speckled eggs, safely warm.


Two weeks later they've hatched, and the job of feeding begins.


Bare pink bodies, wearing nothing but dark fluff on their heads, snuggle, face-forward, waiting for their parents’ return. Motionless and quiet, in their warm fuzzy hats, they, too, are barely seen.

It’s an endless procession.
First, Mama with a grub, then Papa with a beetle.
They hop to the small opening and wait.
With each arrival, the nest comes alive.


Five gaping orange mouths, hungrily open.
Finally, color and life.

Carolina Wren at nest