nesting

A bird is building her nest on my balcony.
I saw it today for the first time when I stood,
empty watering can in hand,
for a few extra moments
in the sun.

Right in front of me,
water dripped from a hanging basket of yellow petunias.
I wanted to
gulp in simple nutrients like my flowers,
to be full to overflowing:
my cup runneth over.

That's when I saw her nest.
A hideout of a home on top of my porch light.

She is building her nest with my hanging baskets,
strands she steals from me—
although I've never seen this, it must be true—
but I do not mean to accuse: she isn't stealing.
She's naturally resourceful.

I watched her nest,
empty watering can in hand,
willing her to come back,
to pull another piece of her home from my hanging basket,
to show me how she builds with only a sharp beak.

I stood a few extra moments
in the sun
wondering what makes a home

before turning
passing through the door to my home
to re-fill my watering can
that now runneth over:
with stray strands of home, simple nutrients I gulp in.