22 May 2017

A Nest




Yesterday, my nephew was clearing my sister’s yard of desert debris with a leaf blower, when he told us that an accident had happened. Apparently, a quail couple had built a nest behind a piece of flagstone leaning against the wall, and their eggs and nest had blown several feet away tossing the eggs. Their white speckled shells, not outwardly broken… I lifted one, and the baby chick within stirred vibrant in my hand. Enraptured, I held it near my ear, and heard clicking… 25 … not all moving… Now we understood why the roadrunner had been stalking the yard; it was its instinct. We briefly studied images of quail nests, then we cautiously and gently gathered the nest’s remains… woven leafs of bougainvillea, wispy grass straws, feathers for strength yet, diaphanous. We rebuilt a circle, cautiously placing pulsing eggs and still, all precious eggs downbound. Hoping for their wholeness… their family’s completeness... That they will walk... and sing...  that their family will return home… Accidents happen. Nature is instinctual. But, human depravity is neither. It's a choice. Mourning all the Manchesters.
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