Reclaiming My Territory
Breaking news:
The house sparrows have annexed the airspace above my front door.
The eaves, of course, were occupied years ago
an old colony with squatters' rights
and no interest in negotiating.
Now they're skirmishing with the fat, fuzzy bees
who insist the windows are disputed territory.
No one consulted the humans.
I have concerns.
Birds are tiny, feathered landlords.
They decorate with twigs,
redecorate with droppings,
and then look at you as though you're behind on the rent.
They're absurdly adaptable.
Tenacious.
Ridiculously fertile.
Four broods a year, if the mood strikes.
They don't just survive
they franchise.
Each morning they launch from the eaves
like a squadron of miniature fighter pilots,
all banking and looping in impossible formation
the Blue Angels,
if the Blue Angels wore brown pajamas
and screamed at six in the morning.
Summer has arrived.
Which means I'm preparing my own campaign.
I'll reclaim the front porch
one lawn chair at a time.
I'll bring a novel,
a sweating glass of lemonade,
light the citronella candle
like a ceremonial beacon of human sovereignty,
and keep a fly swatter nearby
less as a weapon,
more as a reminder
that every kingdom
needs a slightly exasperated queen.
Wish me luck.
