I chopped down the nest—took a heavy pair of hedge trimmers & cut all the
vines & branches surrounding, careful to avoid the old telephone line ent-
angled with them. I thought it was an old nest, considered for a moment that
maybe there would be baby birds inside, but figured on it being empty & not with
two eggs— [soft turquoise robin’s eggs]— resting in the belly of this bowl I now held in my ignorant hands.
When we moved here, I was 7 & enamored with the glory that was deer & foxes peach tree apple tree bluebirds blue jays persimmon tree
bats grapevines groundhogs fig tree coyote woodpeckers walnut tree possum frog
It’s near impossible for a human to keep them alive said the man from the
wildlife refuge over the phone in regards to the eggs that were now snuggled
in a box on my bed.
How I’d altered this menagerie, magnificent gallery in a brief moment how
They’re probably already dead, mom suggested before offering me a hug &
promising she wasn’t mad all 3 times I asked. But
probably doesn’t mean definitely &
I dug up the ceramic heat lamp from the basement, the one we’d used to keep our parakeets warm through winter, and clamped it to the post of my childhood bunk bed. It stunk like nail polish.
how there’s only so much to be learned from a frantic Google search.
After a few minutes, I surrendered, ashamed, and carried the nest back out
side. I wished for away to wipe my fingerprints from the thin walls sep arating
embryo from uni verse before sliding the twiggy fixture back into uncut
branches, washing my hands, determining
there are some sacred matters [I&] [from which] humans would do best