this bird outside my window.
busy with her life, one twig,
one thread of grass at time,
and there is all the time in
the world for what she does,
or so she thinks. slowly,
endlessy, with delibrate finds
and flight, so much hope
before the eggs appear that
won't, because it's too late
in the season, too far into
the winter months, and her
hair is turning silver,
and her walk is no longer
with wings, but a crawl towards
darkness, and ebbing light.