If There’s a Poem on a Bird’s Nest, You Can’t Trust that Nest

Some things don’t go on like that.
Some pets don’t come back. Lost loves
Stay lost the rest of your life.

Ends aren’t real for you. They’re real
For what you lose, who you lose.
That’s why you brood on the end.

You know your faith, way of life,
Loved home, loved songs, way you talk,
Hopes, plans, flags, facts could be lost.

You chant poems that make an art
Of this, or did, near one end.
It helps, a bit. A small bit.

Last spring, a house-finch pair built
A nest in the south porch beams
Of a house for rent per month.

When the young fledged, the house cat
Caught two of the three of them.
The last one seemed to have flown.

This spring, a thing got the cat.
No one knows what thing. No cat.
Two birds—the same ones?—came back.

There’s no nest yet. The whole house
Still rents month by month. Same folks
So far, who don’t know what’s next.