Nest

I walked out, and the nest was already there by the step.  Woven basket of a saint sent back to life as a bird who proceeded to make a mess of things.  Wind right through it, and any eggs long vanished.  But in my hand it was intricate pleasure, even the thorny reeds softened in the weave.  And the fading leaf mold, hardly itself anymore, merely a trick of light, if light can be tricked.  Deep in a life is another life.  I walked out, the nest already by the step.