She sits in the pea-green leather chair,
stares out the beveled glass
of the front door, watches the nest
under her eaves for activity.
The father bird has been with her
since long before the divorce.
He remains constant, splattered
circles dried on the steps of her porch
are like love letters encompassing
the mother bird and her. She steps
around them and even when they fester
in the blistering summer, she does not
kick them away.
In the nest of twigs and buds she sees
flashes of grey, watches the father bird
careen off the porch light to the nest
to drop of his cargo again and again.
She does not move a muscle; customary
nervous and alone habits on hold.
In another week she’ ll choose new colors
to paint the house. She does not want
to come home to a façade of “Honeymoon
Yellow” anymore. She will make
an exception only for her father bird
and his family; the eaves above the front
door will remain.
Art:: Lisa Cihlar, Watercolor on Card, 2022