of the house to cut saplings,
and clear a view to snow
on the mountain. But when I look up,
saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in
the uppermost branches.
I don't cut that one.
I don't cut the others, either.
Suddenly, in every tree,
an unseen nest
where a mountain
would be.
poem by Tess Gallagher, photos by me
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