The Nest

In spring,
a bird began building nests.

She had a gift for choosing branches—

which would bend just enough,
which would hold.

She could tell right away.

Before long,
other birds came to her.

She helped them.

Sometimes,
she added small touches—
a few pretty leaves,
little things
that made a nest feel complete.

More birds began to come.
They waited for her.

Some would bring branches,
just to have her look at them.

They liked
how her nests turned out.

Spring passed,
and still,
she had no nest of her own.

She kept building for others,
never stopping.

At last,
she began
to build for herself.

But by then,
it was already late spring.

She worked quickly—
branch after branch.
She didn’t pause
to choose anymore.

Some branches didn’t hold.
One slipped and fell.

The nest was small and shaky.
There wasn’t much room.

When summer came,
her fledglings were finally born.

They were squished together,
restless and noisy,
pushing against each other.

Often, one or two
tumbled out of the nest.

Each day,
she patched the nest,
lifted fallen fledglings,
and searched for food.

No birds came to help.

The summer stretched on.

She was exhausted.

The next spring,
she started early.

This time,
she chose her branches
carefully.

She gathered more than enough.

A bird flew past.
“Could you take a look?”

She paused.

She did not go.

She set another branch
in place.

After that,
fewer birds came.

Then none.

She added berries
to her nest,
and a few flowers.

She took her time.

The nest held.

Her fledglings thrived.