Every morning, my boy-o wakes up and opens his curtains to look into the nest resting in the branches just beyond his window. He is waiting for the baby birds to arrive, though the nest has been abandoned since late-Summer. The nest itself is unremarkable--strewn with bits of paper and straw, a small cup crafted of mud and jutting sticks. It isn't beautiful in the way an oriole or a warbler's is, those clever hanging baskets more artfully crafted than anything I could ever dream of making. Still, the nest sits proudly there--even in its emptiness...and we wait, full of faith that new birds will arrive come Spring to claim it as their home.
This is life--not metaphor, symbolism, or poetry...and yet that nest outside--my son's inspired delight in something so insignificant as this--my own heart, swelling, as I share this vigil of anticipation with him: I know instinctively this is where the story lies. Looping strands of grasses and straw, lacking skills to built a symmetrical structure...I stand here brooding over children, life, and words--my imperfect nest in the stark Winter branches.