The nest, eloquently laid of brittle twigs, holds
a knitted cup of coffee/color pine needles mingled
with wispy leaves and lies in the branching Y
of Pyracantha, framed by Aprils’ white corymbs
and shielded by the tan brick wall of my home.

Four blue/gray air-brushed eggs glow a tinge
of brown speckling. All has been abandoned.
They lie, lovingly deprived of apprehensions,
of ever wondering why; what forced their mother
to be to flee one instinct for another.

Perhaps, our prying eyes or the cat crouching,
or the bullying gang of jays flaunting
their colors; threatening hate crimes.
Perhaps, it was only a roving eye, a perceived
greener tree…an inexplicable unease.