This birdhouse hangs mostly hidden from the light of day. It hangs in a chicken coop built a century ago by my great grandfather. My grandfather, Harold Virlyn Barnes, I am told, constructed the birdhouse when he was a boy. It has hung in this spot for at least forty years.
Evidence of its service to the bird folk lay within. A thin bit of cracked and peeled paint protects not at all. The fat nail heads are but rust. The wood warped, swollen, and cracked. Joints bulging. Some fragments have fallen altogether to another calling.
I like to think of Virlyn coming across this birdhouse, a memento of his youth, in later years and hanging it so that it may be preserved in this retired structure. Hanging it so that in it’s preservation his former self may not be altogether lost; not yet anyway. Hanging it, I am sure, so that in this old coop with chicken wire rusted out the birds may yet for greater length and comfort make use of his youth’s craft.
It hung here as my grandfather and his hold on this world fell too to that other calling of decomposition. It hangs now.
How many tenants had this
tiny home seen?
And how many dwellings like this
might there be?
