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Nest // Chloé Yelena Miller

We stop slamming the screen door
for the birds' nest in the bushes.
The long-tailed couple pecked
aluminum foil, styrofoam into their bowl.
I tug branches to the side -
we don't have to squint to see this world.

They hover, dive toward squirrels, a cat, even us,
to protect imperfect eggs.

In the morning, the nest empty, tilted,
as if pouring something out.

We search for our own perfect home,
spillproof.
We spy on neighbors before signing.
Our wooden floor twists with the wood.
We unload, hang curtains,
combine memories we didn't have together,
two years we did. Here we will.

Lock the door for when no one watches.

The danger of human touch that disturbs, gone.

When we sleep, everything we need is inside.