<Prompt 5: Write a poem about something concealed/write about something unconcealed.>

All through the verdant season

the nest-builders have concealed

within the thick cover of leaves

their great treasures, crafted

of vines and twigs, cobwebs, grasses:

their work of the season’s passing.

Then, mystery and secrecy–

the eggs, dappled and speckled,
and suddenly, ravenous nestlings.

But now, all is revealed.  The trees
have dropped their golden skirts
about their ankles, and the secret is spilled.

There, in the yellow maple,
a random twiggy pile of mockingbird nest.

A bedraggled clump of matted grass

at the furthest dangling limb of the poplar
is all that remains of oriole’s art.

In the tree at the top of Ducktown Road,

a gray orb, nest of a colony of paper wasps.

In the sky, those rippled clouds,
ribs of the gods, and birds gathering,
riding the sky-road south for winter.