Towhee Chiding

     An Eastern towhee scratches in the pine straw beneath my window. It has the black face and rufous breast of an adult male but the timidity of a juvenile. His song, “drink your-tea,” lacks confidence. 

     Frankly, I am surprised the local mockingbird hasn’t run him off. Our mocker, lord of lords and capo di capi in these parts, has scared away migrating robins, a bachelor pair of blue jays and even a loudmouth crow.

     I want the gentle towhee to stay and eventually to call a mate to the dense holly hedge outside my office where they will build a nest low to the ground and take turns feeding their young. There is something about his work ethic that draws me to him. He pulls back the fallen leaves with a quick backward jump and delves into the moist topsoil for bugs and seeds. Over and over he works the yard for sustenance.  

      His industriousness reminds me that stories and poems won't write themselves. I put aside the novel by someone else and the desire to walk by the house of a dying woman whose children have descended from far-off cities. Already they are arguing about who will get what. 

     Towhee's gentle song chides me back to the keyboard.