nesting

birds don't sleep in nests, they sleep
mid-flight. on a long drive back
from the city i shut my eyes at the wheel for
just a second, convinced i could survive. 
somehow i did. i have amazing luck
& terrible luck at the same time. 
i prefer the thatched nests to the ragged 
robin ones. i am a proud coveter.
i want the house to either side of us
& sometimes i make up these weird fantasies 
that the owners will sit me & my partner down
& give their farms to us.  all my dreams
are of luxury. depending on the day
i am a bad socialist or anarchist. i am impressed
by people with solid political beliefs. 
i just want to build beautiful places to sleep
& for everyone else i know to do the same.
there are no landlord birds to the best of
my knowledge but we should keep
an eye on them to make sure they stay
on the right path. this year somehow
the robins managed to have five babies.
none of them died in the nest or fell
like wet seeds. instead, i watched 
them fly for the first times. i told them,
"pretend we are not here." they said,
"who is 'we'?" i did not have an answer.
i think i would be happier if i started siding
with the birds more often. now, when i say
"us" i mean myself & the wrens who are
trying to get fat before winter. if only i were
smaller & hollow boned. then i could
join them in building nests along 
the eaves of the neighbors' houses. instead,
i linger on the street outside
while taking an afternoon walk. note
the details of the porch posts & window edges. 
i hurry along, worried someone inside
might think i'm a criminal (which i am).
to be a nest builder in an eggless world
is to be a law breaker. one day i will get a yolk
golden enough to save us. until then,
we are sleeping mid-flight. headlights
of a tractor-trailer. the mountain's 
slumped shoulders. No where else to go.