Sightless in morning fog,
she laces fallen fibers
of fan palm, bunchgrass,
the birch’s lost twigs,
spins an empty creation.
Conifer needles, the fox’s hair
round out the void,
what was cast off and left
for dead now the dwelling,
twined with stippled space
of eggs to come, primeval
point of departure, dawn
chorus chipping the dark.
Wings rustle, expand
the hollow, nothing
yet something, expectant.
—Laura Reece Hogan
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