Riverside Living

Baby’s breath, I think it’s called. That antique lace of blossoms under which they’ve built a nest. They have a right. No one ever asked them how they were planning to finance it. Or investigated their credit history. The things they’ve used are gnarled and sharp. Brittle grass, snapped reeds and wiry moss. Splintered twigs and saxifrage. Raspy-edged Alder leaves. And yet their nest looks soft. And she, head tucked under a night-fluttered wing, looks even softer. She has a right. No one ever asked her if she was entitled to maternity leave. If her job was stable. Or what she was planning to do about day-care. No one ever glanced to her webbed feet for a ring. And he. Cruising in golden evening light, his long neck gilded to a regal hue. Circling the dark wind-furrowed water, never drifting far from where she sleeps. His jet eyes scan the river bank, his dripping beak held high. He has a right. No one ever questioned his intentions. Or asked if he had health insurance. Or how he planned to support a family. Together, they wait. Her white body compassed by a mossy halo. Calm. Composed. Reflections rippling. A postcard of serene. But heaven help any wildling fox that ventures from the undergrowth. Any misdirected mallard. Any creeping water vole. They’ve built a nest. They have a right. They will hiss through razor teeth that snap and slice. Wings will spread. And arch. And rise. And rise.