For the Bird Mother

Ostara. We took a walk down to the creek. A discarded egg shell was still wet from an early morning breakfast. Countless feathers lay scattered across the grass and into the reeds. She nested too low, I think. Her optimism her ending. The nest she spent hours crafting hung loose, unwoven. One light pink egg lay, cold in the mud, still whole. I picked it up, probably too late to make a difference, but for the bird mother, I warmed her tiny egg in my hands.

“For the Bird Mother,” oil stick on yupo, 9 x 12 inches, 2026.