Her morning starts long before mine.
I look out the window for progress.
There it is, without mom, molded
into the vertex of two twigs
partly camouflaged by leaves.
The circumference of a quarter,
the mossy green and grey-white nest
complements the mother's colors.
Suddenly she flies in, hovers
with a feathery remnant and places
it on the nest wall that holds the
aspirin size white egg
barely visible at the bottom.
She fluffs her body over the crib,
mother and nest melt into the green
and ride the wave of wind
between the house and row of ficus.


© by Erle Kelly.
Used with the author’s permission.