I cupped the nest as Rembrandt’s Aristotle
held the bust of Homer and thought
of all those restless flights to ferry twigs
and blades of grass and scraps of bark, and the urge
to fit them in a hoop as perfect as the sky.
Built, some would say by instinct—I saw love,
the flaming care stars lavish on their planets.
Made not to last, but serving for a single season
before the fledglings launch themselves
into the air their wings were made for.