There is an empty nest
resting on the snow-covered branches
above our bathroom window.
A grocery bag cushions collected debris,
holding it together like a hammock.
If it’s quiet enough
and the wind blows just right,
I can hear the weathered plastic
rustling against the rugged tree.
I wonder about the family who lived there.
Where they’ve gone, why they left.
And whether it can hold itself together long enough
to house the next guest intending to leave,
or break the laws of time and stay.