Nest

That which controls the depths of the sounds and shapes around me,

the map of how far along each dimension

to run the presence of each sensation and object,

remains hidden and separate from my description.

I am unable to distill the variation in these forms,

to catalog the shrillness of the bird call,

the sturdiness and angle of the rooftop,

which, though imperfect,

I perceive as a smooth triangle,

terminating above the yard in a clean line,

while, simultaneously, forming a point

from which all else falls,

the water and debris to the ground below.

Even my boots slide against the red shingles.

I lift myself higher to see inside the nest,

and peer into the origin of the bird call,

witnessing the smallness and complexity

sounding the ineffable fullness of life.