the bird nest

I passed a sparrow today. It was carrying a twig. It was a husband. The wife was on a branch screaming. They allow themselves to follow these gender roles. Half way to the perch, he dropped the twig. He saw me and landed, frozen by his prize. The wife was screaming.

I wanted to pick up the twig and hand it to her, then gather the blades of grass that littered the tree's base. The gardening crew is out on campus. The next flowerbed was already covered in mulch. Soon, all of the autumn rot they were collecting would be covered, made aesthetically pleasing to University Administration. I wanted to stick my gum between twigs and hold their home together, leave pieces of my sweater to warm the speckled eggs.

I wanted to care for their babies and tell them that they were safe. I wanted to apologize for the nests that are knocked from rain gutters and trim back their branches when they grow too far over the street. I wanted to remove the parking garage and plant trees and add deer and squirrels. I wanted to sing and have them land on my finger and dance in boots that a prince left unattended.