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 Empty. 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.