The Nest

A swallow steps, closer, closer
to the edge, to the fall,
it’s children curled under
her wings, each step
a journey, the earth calling,
loud, menacing,

The gull pushes, once, twice,
to fall or fly, live or
die, should they even try.
The wings are small, but she
knows, despite all, that they
are ready, unwilling, kicking,
screaming. Yet still some die,
broken and hopeless. Defeated.

Does the finch ever wait, think,
hesitate, flinch, when it must decide,
inside, that is it time. Time to
leave, be left, grieve, to listen for
the beat of wings or the crack
of her babies bones.

A child will never comprehend that
to be left is the act of a friend, not
of hate. Never understand why
they must fall before they fly.
They will always deny the
humanity of the doting dove
that dragged, shrieked, shoved
and dumped their darlings, over
the edge. Towards the hateful,
angry, forest ground.
The big city.
The world.


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