Morning or Mourning
The cold light of dawn nudges awake
A new day. A day full of possibilities
And promises, sometimes empty but
Convincing nonetheless, like a nest
Intricately pieced together and crafted
By a doting mother's beak, only to be found
What has become of them?
Flown, now grown, or tumbled out by
The cold-hearted cuckoo?
Perhaps deconstructed by the greedy jaws
Of a fox, whiskers bloody, satisfied.