jml297

As a child, it had been a treat to come across a bird’s nest in the broad patch of scrub between the back of their house and the creek. Occasionally, there would be one, tucked amongst the scrubby undergrowth, left after the chicks had fledged and found their way in the world. Others were in situ, nestled in the fork of a branch. They would watch these, reluctant to move it if there were any signs that the nest was still in use.

Some nests were easy to spot, with a messy knot of sticks and leaves. Others were more delicate, finely spun out of twigs, their shape as carefully crafted as an artisan’s cup. Some had flower stalks as supporting struts, layered to add shape and structure. A common feature was camouflage, with dry sticks and shredded bark helping to disguise the nest from opportunistic predators.

Her craft had evolved over the years, incorporating various techniques and trends, but eventually, she found her niche. It was in the creation of tiny, imperfect nests using local materials gathered on walks. They were inspired by wrens, robins and spinebills, and supplemented at times by small feathers gleaned from the mulch in her garden. These nests represented a cycle of life, of birth, nurturing, care and independence. They were a safe place, a starting point of a journey. A nest was somewhere to return to, until you were ready, at last, to fly.

This was written to an object prompt, a tiny nest, at my local writing group.

Photo: bird’s nest, Meadowbank