Mother bird why is your nest so high?
Does the wind whisper of forgiveness, whistle in forgetfulness, up there?
I see your baby perched high on the nest-edge, buffeted by fear and courage. Do you turn to look?
No, your beak is at its work of cracking, twisting, and tending.
Here he is again, your child. No longer a baby. Again he stands at the edge of his crown of thorns. Again the waves of flight or fight or fall crest and converge; and flight, yes flight! Mother bird, it must be! Never done, only dreamed, finally victorious,
He leaps over the last nestled horizon into first abyss of sky. Do you not turn then? No, but continue on. But I thought I saw you—in the space between one bird heartbeat and its next—yes, I thought I saw you pause over your stick and claw and worm and mouth. Bird eyes staring. Mother. Bird ears listening to the soaring wind.