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Leaving The Nest

This Mother's Day,
we collect garbage in plastic bags
as we always do
late afternoons hiking
the logging trail
just above the house.

In the dusky light,
you spot a fallen nest
laced with fresh feathers.
We imagine the best,
that it was blown out
of some nearby ponderosa
after it served its purpose,
but, who knows?

Later, as I begin packing,
I don't know what to do
with this souvenir,
now so utterly useless.


Ran Huntsberry

This poem along with the poem 'palimpsest'
appear in the Poetry Journal PGI #5

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