Nest

One fell out of the neighbors’ tree across the street, 

landing on the ground below.

Sticks, a bit of fluff, and the long string of plastic 

I had reached to throw away,

the kind that peels back to reveal the wet string cheese 

mothers press into small red hands, 

crumbed with dirt from front yard acrobatics, 

interspersed with 25 cent visits to the lemonade stand 

in the driveway next door.

It survived the winter, 

the plastic flag reminding passing dog walkers 

of the noisy, delight-verging-on-tears afternoons, 

the faithful, stair-sitting mommas 

peeling back the plastic and brushing off scraped knees, 

staving off the witching hour, 

when football tackles give way to bedtime routines, 

Daylight Savings gives way to winter snows, 

and moving men load trucks and drive south.

I left it, 

no longer littering, but christening 

the bare footworn, somersaulted, slip-and-slided, 

homegrown patchwork bit 

of mud and grass.

© Rie Harris, 2018

House sparrow male carrying nest material
Photo by P Jeganathan
on Wikimedia Commons