a bastard magpie
thin, oil skinned,
flew into a perfect blackbird nest
and flew out
dangling a purple chick
in its beak.
Briefly the chick’s wing
spread like fingers.
Its first flight.
The parents came out and
I felt their hysterical no-no-nos
As clearly as my own.
But I am not being honest.
This is not the first time the magpie has done what it must do.
And the blackbirds still return
With worms and twigs and hope each time.
And I still watch
And keep my desperation to myself.