The flicker
house was mounted
on a backyard
tree
with desire to
conserve,
to ensure a
presence.
But squirrels
thought
the box to be
theirs,
a homestead for
generations
of furry tails.
They remodeled
the opening,
wove pine straw ticking
and birthed the
first brood
of tiny
sunflower seed thieves.
The yard wars
were on
and raged for
decades.
The day wind
felled the box,
hunch drove me
to look inside
and there perched
on a pillow of
down
was a single
speckled egg.
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