That day, the thrushes finally fledged.

For weeks, I’d heard his whistled songs to her at dawn:

now-now, now-now, did-he-do-it, did-he-do-it,

then watched her plunge into the hedge, bringing grass,

roots and moss to purl with a busy beak.  She stamped

the floor with tiny feet, fed the cup with mud and spit,

pressed her speckled belly to the curve

until it grew the contours of a bird.

As we sent out invitations to the feast,

she laid a clutch of brilliant turquoise eggs.

Day after day, she sat and hatched her bulge-eyed brood.

It was a wide-beaked time that wore her sad and thin.

I’d see them both, smashing snails against an anvil,

bearing wet meat to their young. Then June came.

As I stepped into my dress, mother fastened

silk-covered buttons with her crochet hook

and I watched the last chick totter at the nest’s lip,

held my breath while it fluttered, stretched, and flew.

I brought the lice-infested nest indoors to see

a tangle of your hair strung gold against the brown. 

We have it still: her parting gift. It stinks—of food,

of flesh—this living mess, this coracle of scraps.