Poem #004: The Crow's Nest

 

THE CROW'S NEST

 

In the young time of the year,

After January and December,

The crow builds her nest.

 

She and her mate,

Ruttish from the wait,

Search for twigs and stems.

 

Together they gather and cull,

With no time to mull,

They're in haste.

 

A location must be found,

Away from traffic sounds,

Amidst a garden or a grove.

 

But in a city or a town,

Where the trees are chopped down,

A utility pole will do.

 

High up in these branches,

Beyond preying chances,

The nursery is built.

 

With talons and beak,

And two wings weak,

They must make do.

 

For neither hands nor feet,

Nor fingers are meet,

To build this tree-top home.

 

Soon it will be,

A homely territory,

For newborn chicks.

 

Adept engineers they,

Foremost craftsmen of the day,

Pupils of the Creator himself.

 

Building to the specifications,

Set by the Master Mason,

They begin.

 

A foundation is laid,

A flimsy framework made,

Yet it withstands a storm.

 

A cornerstone of sticks,

Stitched up with sere sprigs,

Rests in the crotch of a branch.

 

Cemented with wet clay,

Insulated with down and hay,

A soft repository for eggs.

 

Under a ceiling of leaves,

Nestled by a spring breeze,

They will lie.

 

On the nest sits the mother,

A black-feathered power,

Of love.

 

Beneath an airy dome,

This sun-lit tree home,

Is no less a fortress.

 

For with a vigilant eye,

From her eyrie high,

She watches.

 

Behind a curtain of bowers,

And pendant mango showers,

The eggs are warmed.

 

Neighbours and friends,

Nesting on other branch ends,

Come to visit.

 

A fine atmosphere,

Of spring and good cheer,

Parents take turn to sit.

 

Eggs as blue as the sky,

Below which they lie,

Little wisps unborn.

 

Unaware that the world,

Into which they've been birthed,

Is torn.

 

For birds, and beasts,

And fishes, and trees,

The future looks bleak.