Then the circuit tripped, and under alley stars above the breaker box, I found the twig nest with bits of hatchling shell. I considered the one- note hum one's home makes, the murmur of watt and want the nestlings fledged above, forming their own warble from need-cry. Once at a wedding's banquet, my father, so often frugal, spoke on the extravagance of the first course, of the trellises, in sea caves in China, centuries-old and twine-tethered by nest collectors. Shouldering gunnysacks damp with spindrift, they forage the swift nests for the blood-spittle that binds twig to twig and is a delicacy seasoning a soup's broth. I looked for what bound my nest but found nothing for profit or to pawn, though in my hand it was round as a pocketwatch—a pocketwatch with fob that once tethered a bird. Mason of the avian, father said, sipping from his Seven and Seven. Then the sea bass came with slivers of scallion. We used our soup bowls, discreetly, for the bones.