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.
