I could feel it, that feeling again. The same one I get each time. Not I hope I find something or maybe I’ll find something but rather, there is something.
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It is in our nature to read things, we are born to read and find our meaning, I think again. I pause mid-step. On the path at my feet is a nest.
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Out walking, I stepped well away from the road when a car was coming. After the car passed I went to take a step, looked down and found this at my feet.
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I worked the seed heads in my hands, round and round, pressing my thumb as you would with a clay pot. I could feel the layers of thin stems pressing together, becoming tangled.
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Such busyness. Such relentless directed effort in building a nest…
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It's possible that it's actually a failed attempt at a nest. It's hard to see how it could have held a single bird, let alone a clutch. Maybe it was a first attempt, a training ground. Maybe it was unfinished…
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