the nesting

the songs
of birds outside,
the racket of wings.
the scratch
of existence into the sides
of trees.
the fallen seeds,
the insects
frenetic
in their small world
found burrowed beneath
dried leaves.
how they sing and sing,
without
regard to what's to come,
the shortness of
their lives
unknown, unnecessary.
the nesting of spring.
it's just now.
this moment
this joy of today
in being alive.