355/365

a wisp of a nest,
meticulously secured
to a finger thin branch
of the resurrected bougainvillea,
blows precariously in the
afternoon wind. as the two
tiny yellow birds, back from
a year of where ever they’ve been,
work tirelessly in tandem gathering
materials from the neighbourhood
to build a safe haven for what i’ll
assume will be the most indiscernible
egg with a translucent shell.

last year the nest blew away before
they were ready. my wife wants to help
by erecting a shield or offering twine,
but you can’t mess with evolution.
my daughter, a few weeks, ago
asked about meaning in life-

i wonder where the birds go at night
in the wake of the full moon light.
how much could we love
their invisible new life?