Nest

There once had been nothing

beneath black wings,

flapping with all my might.

No wind today.

 

An egg lays ready to hatch,

but ruffled feathers

have been plucked before

it arrived. No wind, still.

 

When the shell cracks

and falls apart, squished

face has green eyes blinking

against the harsh light

 

and the beak-mouth opens

wide. Shrieks call out. Breeze.

The larger beak-mouth could

not reach for wailing

 

chick, numbed from surgery

and drugs. The one whose movements

were not hindered reached

for the fluff. There is wind today.

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About blackwinterrosethorn

I am an artist and a writer whose living in Virginia. I go to Hollins University and I am a double minor in Creative Writing and Music. I've been writing for about eleven or twelve years. I've been singing forever and I have been drawing and painting for four or five years. I am open to doing commissions and collaborative pieces. View all posts by blackwinterrosethorn

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