Bird’s Eye View

It has been raining;
The wind has shaken loose
the limbs of trees.
Brown and muddy,
they lie everywhere,
one the same as the other
to my eye, and perhaps,
to yours, too.
But there is another eye
that sifts through this
wreckage, and looks
with an instinct
buried deep within the well
of that memory,
the memory that guides the beak
to fetch and build
the strongest of fortresses
to hold, with tenderness,
the promise of new life.
That instinct that knows
a twig from a home,
a stick from a wall,
a jewel from a bauble.

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