30 Apr Poem for a Friday: The Nest


The nest
is mostly trash. It
looks too perfect
and terrible
to be real. It looks
like a sculpture
installed at the edge
of the pond to nag us
for a season
about litter, neglect,
the coming disasters,
the end of our planet.
But it isn’t: the swans
are living here. They are
waiting again, as they do
every year, for their
young to be born. They are
lifting their heads,
blinking, showing us
all they have scavenged
and what they have built
from mud and twigs
and plastic
grocery bags and styrofoam
coffee cups crushed
to soft bits, the cups’
flimsy lids graying
and whole, each
with a small
serrated tongue
that quivers in the wind.


  • Missy
    Posted at 01:14h, 30 April Reply

    We drove to see if thefts had hatched yet, on the way we saw two geese herding there babies across the road…. But no cygnets yet!!! Love this poem…. I know spring has come by the hatching of those eggs….

  • Marilyn Christmann
    Posted at 13:01h, 01 May Reply

    Both Bill and I enjoyed this poem. We are watching nearby swans who always seem to nest successfully.

    • Jennifer Shattuck
      Posted at 19:32h, 06 May Reply

      Thank you, Marilyn! We think there will be new babies any minute…

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