A barren tree stands tall and strong across the street. I see it weekly on days I volunteer. It’s naked limbs waving on windy days. High up, in the crux where two branches meet, sits a large, empty nest. Too large for small Avian visitors. Not a home for sparrows or finches, surely. Built by crows or grackles or large jays, perhaps-- The nest sits, stable and empty, as if a child took a large dark brown Sharpie and drew a circular blob when asked to draw a bird’s nest on a page featuring an outline of a tree.
Its emptiness captures me. Mirrors me. It stood, providing shelter for the young growing there. Now, abandoned by the young it once sheltered, the adult birds, no longer of use, have abandoned it as well-- Each having traveled on their way. Yet the nest survives-- Empty, except for the glue of memory attaching it to the tree-- As I am emptied of the young I once sheltered.
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Hearing The Mermaids Sing 