by Tracey Rich

I go to the nest 
for comfort.
I have sat there 
for years looking out
over the land, the 
lake, the tops of 
trees.
I listen to the
crows, the silence, the
wind, the chickadees, and
I listen for the call of 
the great bald eagles
who have made this 
their home.
I can hear the
buzz of bees and
flies—never knew
they could fly so
high, and visit with the 
squirrels as faint 
and swift as
air. 
I see for miles, and
it is good in
the nest
where memory lives, and
dreams are spun,
and loss
lessens, and
life goes on.

copyright 2026