The Fledgling

Like a newly hatched bird, I crane my neck,
open my beak to life. Quiveringly wet,
I await sun, breeze, and touch of love.

My first nest is a tangle of branches,
bits of fabric, silk, burlap, my mother
father, brothers, sister, all of us hidden
in the boughs of a linden tree.

Quiveringly I say, "Please love me."
Do they hearken? There are times
when I am rejected, unseen, but grub
is provided. I do not go hungry.

Time passes. I quiver with awe, with
delight. Trees are awash in color. I
sing my warbled song to the night.
Will they still hear me calling?

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