Homing

We don’t, yet, have the new addresses
(The Hawthorns, say; The Yews, perhaps)
but there are signs: the orchard’s scurf of moss,
this scatter of dropped twigs, a general air
of to and fro and busy-ness, the test
of territorial singing. Then, the nest.

D. A. Prince

If you have any comments on this poem, D.A. Prince would be pleased to hear from you.