Nothing particularly strange
or significant
about—
another demolished
three-
quarter remnant
of waxpapery robin's
egg, coaxed
by the
gray morning
wind—into a desiccated
whisper, bobbling now
ignorantly back
and forth across
the green and un-
even wood
planks to the
left of our outside front doorstep.
And yet,
we both stop
on our way
out, to marvel—
I, just
dumb at the sight
of what
seems to me like
possibly either—a sign of new life's
gutsy daring,
or else, it's unfair-
ly high
margin of certain
disaster;
and Lucy,
at the end of her
tether, sniffing
it and
barking a
little, threatened—as a mother
by the apparent
hollowness of the sound.
