Not a Petoskey. Not a skipping stone. Not even a geode. Jagged, slightly larger than a softball, the rock was among the other rocks hauled, dumped, and arranged ten years ago to create a border between the carport and manicured lawn. It rested comfortably among the thousands until the day the woman picked it up, climbed a stepladder and placed it on the flat covering of the lamp illuminating her mother’s car. Bird droppings destroy the paint on a car, she’d been told. And should they nest nearby, they viciously attack anyone in the vicinity.
That is how the war began.
The woman positioned the rock so only a smidgeon of metal was visible on the lamp, convinced the rock would deter the birds. But the finches were equally determined. After twice pulling a ski pole from the trunk of the car to knock the first remnants of a nest from alongside the rock, she added black bird netting. The finches were not dissuaded. Now angry, she grabbed the ski pole and swung it at the nest, the pole’s basket snagging the netting and sending nest, netting and rock tumbling down upon her upturned face. While she broke its fall, the rock still shattered when hitting the asphalt, becoming a svelte version of its former self. Immediately picked up and dropped to its rightful place on the ground, the rock watched the finches, robins, and swallows fly undeterred beneath the carport for the remainder of the nesting season. As for the woman, only after the swelling subsided and x-rays revealed no real damage to face and teeth could she write a poem about a rock that was not just any rock.
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