Almost lost amidst dead leaves
and severed limbs,
a nest felled by the storm,
barely more than twigs.
On other walks, it would have been
a mass to be avoided,
side-stepped in the rain.
But reason,
shamed by distant fluttering,
let sentiment compel
a search for life
within that sodden lump,
so plainly delicate and still.
How to quell despair,
when prodding leaves no doubt,
spills a hash of shattered shells,
a mother’s beak still full?
I laid small stones by the debris,
a bed too frail for splitting skies,
crushing hail,
and,
heeding wings,
gazed far aloft at hope.
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Barbara Froman 