That little brown bird visiting
one corner of the meadow, then another,
for a wrapper, a twig, some fuzz-color,
is unerring, it seems, though maybe,
the world so various, so much of it dangling,
there’s not much possibility of error,
and any looping out and returning
tightens, by nature, into a nest.
What is it about wonder,
strong weakness, will to be surprised,
that where there is no home, lets us live,
and just when we forget how, flies?