Friday night the rain didn’t fall vertically, it poured horizontally like a crashing river along the banks of the night. It carried many things away in its violent arms.
I found this nest Saturday afternoon. It speaks to me of the fragility of the places we feel safest, our nests, our homes. But it also carries the music of enduring things in its intactness. Its mud was still wet when I touched it, still wet and still holding it all together.
There is also this: the bird that lost this nest was not trying to get it back but was busy with birdsong that wove a nest of promises above my head, not of safety, not of things remaining the same and all unchanged, but of another day, of how there are always more sticks and mud and if you are the right kind of lark you will sing to your (new) nest as you build it. — Annette Marie Smith