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 tireless 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,

budding wings,

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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