The nest, half a walnut, about;
two tiny, unhatched eggs,
and this, November, cold after
a rare storm spun off a rare named one,
back east,
brought rain, right between the harvest
and the harvest festival,
as far as city folk imagine… I must assume,
no, allow,
no, imagine, I must
as far as I might say I know,
say these'll never hatch.
The flax will be just fine, though the
wheat will just be fodder.
a musing Tuesday
