Dorina puts the limb of the small branch that
holds the nest into the neck of an empty wine bottle.
The nest is full of dead leaves. Some of the
leaves hang over the edge like passengers over the
railing of a ship.
Grass mixed with a white thread-like material
woven into a thick circular wall spirals towards a
silence inside. A narrow strip of birch bark dangles
from the bottom, the end curled into the shape of a
parchment scroll. This is the rudder the crew used, the
book that, written without thought, they must read to
reach shore.
Rough and airy, the nest braves the wildest storm,
the heaviest rain. From it comes the joy that sent the
young man building his house and carried his parents
from their wedding in the small country church, snow
covering their tracks as they neared the blue water of
the bay.
