Urban Bird's Nest

This would have never happened if I hadn't been riding my bike. Or needed milk from the store. Or happened upon the sidewalk as the landscape worker reached into a trellis of bougainvillea and pulled out the nest.

He reached in, grabbed the nest in his heavy gloved hand. He'd done this before, I could tell; he threw the nest to the ground. Continued his work of pruning.

"Can I have that, please," I pointed. "Can I have the nest?" He bent down, held it out. "Thank you," I said putting it in the basket of my bike.

The nest is constructed the way I dream of nests with twigs, some mud, a single stem of redwood tree. But it's also made with street trash, a gum wrapper, straw wrapper, a bit of plastic and the cottony butt of a cigarette. There are three colors of printer paper edgings laced and sewn with twist ties, threads, yarns and a mysterious amount of string.

And there is a dead baby bird, beak, feathers and down still in the bowl of its urban made home.

I'll not dream of nests the same way again. I'll look for them instead in the litter on the walk, the small pieces of trash discarded on the street. And I'll wonder if I'm happy the birds are reusing what they find or if I'm so sad I look away and throw the nest to the trash too.