Today, early, but not early-early, I watched a sparrow feather its next. She (or he?) picked through the grass and I sat, silent, in the morning. As my coffee cooled inside (I forgot it), I wrapped my arms around my knees and watched the bird select just the right bits of paper, discarding this over that, no discernible reason. 

I consider my own nest and what I might want it to look like. If I will have a nest at all. But some perch somewhere.

I thought about how even though my mate flew from our nest, it doesn’t mean that our nest was worthy of leaving. Our cozy space, our little life wasn’t perfect, but it was comfortable and predictable and held our chicks all these years.

Just becomes the nest was left behind? It doesn’t mean anything other than more room.

 

 

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