Eggless nests and future possibilities

Lately there's this strange lull in my life.  A quietness, a fresh stillness that rises in the heat of the morning.  A little pocket of time that I fill with small longings and long walks wondering.  I need to get some things done.    I know that, yet I am still wandering. My hands always, always busy, making, forever making.  My thoughts hovering and gliding.  Around and around it goes on this warm summer day.

I discovered a hummingbird nest on my front sidewalk the other morning.  It was so light and so very fragile. Usually the nests hang tight onto the tree limbs, eroding by autumn into little lumps of debris.  Somehow this one floated down and I recognized it for what it was. A bowl of spinning grasses and alyssum, bits of dryer lint woven in between and a little white feather.

Nests connotes many things, but not so much of summer days slowly spinning shorter. I know, for some, nests symbolize comfort, home and security.  Family.  For me, during summer, nests are containers that hold the future past and the possibilities. Still spiraling, still weaving a life of breath and beauty.  Most nests are empty now, some still hidden behind tree leaves or drying reeds.  The maker defined by weft and warp.  Of mud and style.  Of little concern (dove) or great care (robin.)

The world is full of hopeful analogies and handsome, dubious eggs, called possibilities. ~George Elliot

So here I sit making my little clay nests with less ability than a robin and with more care than a dove. On this quiet, not so exciting, lulling summer day.