Our front porch is quiet this morning after a flurry of activity the past few days.
Six small Carolina wrens left the shelter of their nest in the creel
that hangs from a stone pillar.
Two of them left at dusk Monday evening,
their dark frames silhouetted against the sky
as they looked out from their perch on the top of the basket,
and then from the roof.
The next day, the third fledgling appeared, timidly...
seemingly awed by the new world around him...
and the perils it presented.
"What if I fall?"
A sibling shored up his confidence...
while the parents kept close watch from nearby.
The last two fledglings made their getaway late in the morning,
and even tried a little rock climbing before getting accustomed to their wings.
This afternoon, out of habit, I glanced out the front window before stepping outside,
to be sure the coast was clear, but the front porch was strangely silent.
In the basket, after the birds had left, one small egg remained.
There were seven eggs,
and the original contents of six of them have now metamorphasized
into six new minstrels flying in the forest,
singing their song.
We're glad that the birds fledged on time for their introduction to
and also on time to wish a Happy Birthday to my good friend, Pat.