Building a Nest

A week ago, I went to take my dog on his last pee of the night before heading to bed when something hit me hard in the chest. There’s a forsythia bush outside my porch smoldering like a  giant golden bonfire. It’s been steadily blooming for a month. At first, I thought a flowering branch of the bush had somehow whipped free at me.

But the golden thing that hit me was not vegetal. No, it was a finch.

She traced an angry halo around the porch, beating wings, screaming at me.

The next day, caffeinated, I went outside and realized she’d built her nest on the lamp above my front door. I watched all day as she went back and forth, fortifying her nest with twigs and twine.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. And then I added. “Thank you.”

I said thank you because she reminded me that I am also building a nest.