Whitesburg KY

These wrens are not to be disturbed

Points East

There is a little shelf, high on the wall, just inside my garage door, where I keep a whetstone and half a dozen inexpensive, but razor-sharp, fillet knives out of the reach of children and most other people who should not be handling dangerous cutting tools.

I haven’t needed the knives recently because the water has been too high to fish, but tonight I need to put an edge on a cheese knife and couldn’t find my Amish knife sharpener. I went to the garage to get my stone and found that both knives and stone were completely covered with a conglomeration of dead grass and feathers about the size of a shoebox. In other words, what appeared to be the work of some industrious field mice.

I like field mice, but not so affectionately that I’m going to allow them to deny me access to my knives, so I reached up with both hands to grab the mess, intending to throw it out in the pasture where field mice are supposed to dwell in the first place.

Before I even touched the “nest” there was a loud, angry scolding, downright alarming “che-che-che- che-che-che-cheche!!!” from up in the rafters followed by a thump on my cap and then the flapping of wings beating at my ears. I fell backwards out the door, landed on my behind on the asphalt while a father wren perched on the doorknob and continued to give me

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