tiny cupped hands are no nest for a pair of speckled eggs.
but smooth your knitted brow and take comfort
in the illusion of a nest, the protectiveness of soft skin.
suck in your breath and make a barter for your heart
as you exhale on the eggs, rapt, bent on incubation.
this is innocence unmasked, exposed to the elements.
of all the particles of life, child, remember this one:
shredded newspaper in an old shoe box,
anxious, undulating gait of expectant birdmom.
lovingly you stir in the makings of a tonic,
a feather-stimulating elixir of chopped worms
and the unadulterated faith only youth can provide.
I say a little prayer to put some kismet in your mix—
that you not stray too far from your roost,
that I’ve made your own nest a halcyon.
move your body closer, child, so you may trigger
the cracks, the breaking of eggs, birth, the depth of
emotions these sweet feckless wings can conjure.
this is a love that cannot be misconstrued,
this is a bird that takes flight into the sun.
Sarah’s shot (click on image for a larger version):
Leslie’s shot (click on image for a larger version):
For process notes, see “faith on the rocks.”