Birdhouse

Found in the woods

This poem appears in the Fall 2025 issue of The Avocet: A Journal of Nature Poetry

Walking this loop counterclockwise,
after the switchgrass and ferns
have browned and wilted in the frost,
the birdhouse becomes visible
at the base of a large maple.
Once-smooth pine panels
held together with bent nails
and echoes of a smashed thumb
and proud once-overs
are now gray and spongy and soon to inspire
no thoughts at all.

Odd that the little broken home
is way out here, so far into the woods.
Unless this really was a scout camp
like they say.

I imagine the old man would recognize
his boyhood creation
as we walk the trail together.
He'd tell me his was chosen
for that very tree
and all the other boys told
to take theirs home.
He’d point out where the dining hall stood
and the ravine where the older boys
taught them how to smoke and swear.
I hope he tells me that he, also,
was a kid who didn’t cry
away from home
in the quiet of night,
who wanted to stay forever
in the steady,
the untroubled,
the assured.