High up in the boughs it clung against the winds,
Among the leafless branches that splayed out
Reaching into emptiness, bony fingers stretched
Out into the winter void.
Desolate in the brumal air, the nest in lonely gloom
Hung to the parted fork, its twigs in disarray;
Amidst the cracked eggshells and the strewn down lining,
The nest was mute in its air of abandon up the branches.