Its red breast and open beak
lie sullied in the dirt under the nest.
We could surmise a reach too far
over the rim
of the woven grass.
Or blame the wind—
the gust that took my hat and toppled
a robust jade like a plastic cup
could surely fling a fledgling from a shallow nest.
We shall not blame the mother who did nothing
for three weeks but fuss over the baby
and protect the yard from the cock and the crow.
Who sat on the nest and brought food
to the yawning beak
and filled the mornings with song
and industrious labor