A House Wren’s Love’s Labor Lost, a Nature Tale from SCOL, by Vicki Fields
One sunny late Spring morning a bachelor house wren busied himself on the edge of Carrols Creek meadow searching for a perfect nest site. He darted from tree hollows to rock crevices to dead aspen snags looking for the best place to start construction. There were so many. Which one would attract a female to start a family? Ahh, clever wren, why not use them all? If she rejects one, there would be many others to choose from. So, the little wren labored for weeks gathering just the right sized twigs to partially fill more than a dozen hollows. One of his selections was a lovely wooden birdbox on the porch of a small red farmhouse, the home of two Buddhists, one human and one canine. Throughout each day the wren toiled endlessly at his selecting and rejecting of twigs, carrying, arranging, rearranging, and occasionally perching to rest and to call out with trilling melodies to any female wren who happened to cross his territory. At times the tiny builder had to fend off intruders, other male wrens eying his properties. But our wren was industrious and succeeded in securing a variety of small starter homes to catch the eye of a wandering maid. When this task was accomplished, he stretched his feathered neck into the mountain air and composed even more enchanting songs to beckon the season of love. At long last single females heard his sweet melodies and come to investigate the various abodes. Some would reject the wren and his architecture at first glance. Others brought a few fluffy additions to nest then would be lured away by a more favorable song. Finally, one beautiful foreign wren princess was smitten and thought the farmhouse birdbox quite charming. Our wren and his mate set about accumulating the comforts of home with the princess in charge of final decorative choices. Atop the male’s neatly arranged twigs were placed soft grasses, plush down feathers, and small colorful plumes from more showy birds. Even a tiny bit of snakeskin was added as a talisman against evil forces. So focused on homemaking, the couple was not disturbed by the two Buddhists who often lounged on the farmhouse porch not far from the nest box. Not even the canine’s obsessive practice of fetch-yoga distracted the wrens’ constant coming and going for improvements. Soon their nest was welcoming enough for the princess to issue six light brown eggs into the hollowed center of their domain, bringing hope and new life. A week passed, then two. Something was amiss. The Buddhists noticed that the constant activity ceased. Neither the wren nor his princess was seen. The human knew that surely there had not been time enough for chicks to be hatched and fledged. Concern set in, prayers were offered, a vigil was assigned to both Buddhists. For over a week they waited for the parents to return. Nothing. Finally, the box was opened to reveal six perfect eggs resting on carefully interwoven feathers and straw, that product of love’s labor now lost. But the human recalled the rhythm of life that renews itself and a bard’s story of similar lovers who were forced to wait a year with the promise of romance and the words “my heart is in thy breast”.
