THE CHILD - CIRCLES

First Flight

The nest outside my window is full.
Last week they were tiny, wet
with fine, fuzzy, down-covered heads
eyeless, mewing for something
not knowing what or why.

Back and forth the mother soared,
life focused, never stopping
filling the need of the open crying mouths
then flying straight for more.

In just one week
they have become
birds.
Speckled breasts and fluffed up wings,
small sharp beaks and bright black eyes
that now know the need;
fill the belly and then
the sky!

They stand in the nest
ruffling feathers,
flexing wings,
experimenting.
On the hard concrete below
one small body has already broken.

Mother bird is flying faster now.
Will she find enough
to give them what they need?
She senses spring
is almost gone.
Time is short.

And mine . . .
eighteen years of nesting
now stands teetering on the edge
testing balance,
stretching wings,
perceiving with anticipation
the sweet currents of the wind.

I cannot soften the concrete below
nor choose the moment of flight.

My thoughts are flying faster now.
Have I given her enough?
Have I given her what she needs?
A breath of summer
rocks the nest.
Time is short.


©Edwina Peterson Cross