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.
I caught you grooming earlier, nose fixed to your fur, engrossed in washing cheeks and nether regions, intent on looking clean, and sharp, and able for another behind a rose bush, shyly peering out.
When both of you had gone, I spread a lovers’ feast of leafy greens and ripened berries through the clover, knowing you’d return when no one would be there to see your dusk-tinged tryst, or lament its fertile course.