At our monthly Writing is Fun meetings we decide a prompt for writing for the next meeting. Length is set at 2 pages so we can read them at the meeting. There is quite a diversity of writing. Some are real life recollections, some fictional vignettes, and sometimes there's a poem. This is a combination of real life and a bit of made-up story.
The prompt for April 2026 was "House."
I Write: The House That Wakes
Early
One morning, before “Betty Carol” tea consciousness, my at‑home workday started early. Working at home was never restful - looking at the computer and rifling through files drained energy. I stumbled through dim rooms, goosebumps on my arms, following a cool breeze to the office. At the doorway I paused, still half‑asleep. It was so quiet; and then I heard it.
ch REE ch REE ch REE
Alone in a quiet pocket of the approaching day, the notes were loud, crisp,
and as sweet as the taste of a fresh apple- repeating a call-and-response to
itself.
ch REE ch REE ch REE
A tiny bird perched on the birdhouse, singing into the
pre-dawn, blue-grey light. Later I learned it was a Carolina Wren—most likely a male, most certainly an
early riser.
For a moment I imagined the birdhouse near my bedroom window. It would be
the most pleasant way to start a day.
Spring arrived, and while working I began watching the
house where he sang. It sits atop a wooden pole; a host of yellow daffodils
huddled at its base. One day the wren pushed his head into the opening, tail
cocked upright, inspecting. Soon he and a partner began to build a nest,
carrying twigs, tufts of green moss, and thin strands of grass. Then, for days,
it was still.
Another early morning workday I heard the
song again. He sat perched on the tiny roof, flicking his tail as the song
bounced into the dawn air.
ch REE ch REE ch REE
I avoided my work, listening - ch REE ch REE ch REE - and watching as the day opened
gently – the dawning colors unfurling upward like opening flower petals- a
faint blue to pale yellow, a small drift of pink and peach clouds, orange that
burst into yellow as the sun crested the mountain. Then I started my workday.
As the day went on I saw the wren
coming and going, carrying small morsels in its beak, wings fluttering as it
dipped its head inside. A few days later both birds began to bring food back
home.
After dinner, just before the earth
turned to hide the sun behind Cove Mountain to the west, I walked through the
gardens. As I slowly approached the birdhouse I could hear faint, breathy
peeping — the tiny, uncertain voices of chicks only a day or two old. I knew
the parents fed them from sunrise to sunset, but never after. Mama wren would
fold her wings and settle in for the night, and Papa would settle in the maple
branches nearby.
I had begun to rise early each morning
to hear his morning song. The song seemed stronger, more confident, and
definitely louder, singing out like he owns the yard.
ch REE ch REE ch REE
During my workdays I would glance out
the window and see nature’s other entertainment. Squirrels rushed around, tails
flipping, digging in the garden bed. A chipmunk about to fill his cheeks with
bird seed. Morning walkers and joggers out early and a neighbor walking her
dog. Although the daffodils were gone they were replaced by bright orange
tulips.
And there was a day when the commotion
inside the nest was so loud I could hear it. A fluffy head peeked out of the
birdhouse, ducked forward, and brought a little round body with caramel colored
loose feathers up into the hole. It fell forward with small wings spread and
landed softly. With a slight waddle it moved behind a line of hostas at the
back of the garden. Three more fledglings followed it.
When I went for a fresh cup of tea, I
noticed I was more relaxed than when my workday started later. By moving the birdhouse
I would only gain a song—if I was awake for it. And I understood I would lose
something quieter: the slow unfurling of the seasons as the earth tilts toward
the sun. In Spring bringing up the daffodils and the wrens back to their little
house just as surely as it turns to lift the sun over the mountain each
morning.
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