A couple of birds every year,
the same nest there in the
back of the house – they’re
diligent and proud parents
to-be till this morning I
find an egg on the step, an
egg on the paver, an egg on the
table, and an unusual lack
of luster and life coming
from their home of straw tucked
humbly away in my old outdoor
light switch. I gaze up to
where they live, see a small tuft
of hair crest the ridge of the nest,
and I start to sing slow laments, please
don’t-be-sad songs, as much for me as for them.

Chagall 2018

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