Nests


I remember a huge tree with anthills at its foot
on which the brown nests, kidney shaped
with tube- like extensions, swayed
The sun poking its bright fingers into my scrunched eyes
as I pedaled the last stretch home
my mind on them.
I lingered there after school
watching the cackling  birds
chase each other and dangle from
these precious nests wishing I had one
but not sure why I wanted it
Then one day I spotted a large, empty one on the grass
happiness was one hand on the handle bar,
the other fiercely hugging it to my school shirt
not knowing the female had rejected it
for not suiting her aesthetic sensibility
and the eager male had ripped it down
to build a better one for her
but for me it was perfection like none other.
Nailed between my father’s belt and the black umbrella
in the modest, little bedroom with peeling paint,
it stayed for a few weeks ,
losing its charm gradually
till it became a rotten smell and I came home one day
to find it gone.

©Reena Prasad 31st oct 2012 Published In Brian Wrixon’s anthology, In our own words

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