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Nest Study #1
by Kate Magill

The nest in dead branches is not an empty nest:
rimed over with questions and brimful with winter,
unperturbed by the wind that threatens to whisk it
from the place where it was made, needed, abandoned.

A room woven of leavings‐red thread and tinsel‐
bound up for a season and slowly dispersing.
To come home each day to such finely tuned debris:
I'm sure now, here, that I could make do as a bird.

To slip between currents and make of wind a home,
knowing every dwelling is weightless as your bones
and temporary as the blood that stirs about
your labyrinth, the headlong chambers of your heart.

Previously published in Sixfold.  

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