I chanced upon last summer, nestled still in the raspberry thicket.
Woven weed stems, once green, now bleached and fragile as dust
Yet still clinging through wind and rain, snow and thunder.
An instinct-driven creation screaming with the power of life
miraculous in its construction
and now so deathly still, a skeleton moved only by the breeze.
The old nest will rot away in spring rains and summer sun
falling to the duff below, becoming soil itself on woodland edge
to fuel the grasses, raspberry stems, sumac twigs
of a thousand nesting seasons to come.
Each note of field sparrow song drifting above the meadow
a tribute to the summers of the past.