I found her
among the fallen leaves
in her patched
smock
gathering wisps of plume and vine,
bits of broken
shell, some pith and mud.
Her wild nest was half wrought
along the
fence row
and in need of
more molding.
A squash--yellow sun
squinted
through the trees
as I watched
her work
plucking lint
from my sleeve.
Blue dust
clung to my fingers
until the brisk
wind
swept it from my
hand
into her service.
Stuff she
could use
to further
insulate
her nest, to
secure
her birthing
place
with fibers
from the blouse
of another
mother.
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