The nest

I found this precious thing the day after a storm about a week ago. It'd been knocked out of a tree near my daughter's school.

It looked unused, there weren't any feathers stuck it, or any eggs or feathers on the ground around, so I figured it was a gift and I could keep it.

"She made it out of all these little twigs Mummy," my eldest daughter marvelled when I showed it to her. "Did she use her spit to make them stick together?" She's as amazed as I am at its ingenious construction, and the way it's both so strong and so very fragile.

We imagined the little mother bird industriously selecting small, flexible twigs, patiently teasing bits of shimmery gold ribbon and blue cloth to help make the nest comfy. Perhaps she was already working on a new nest to replace the one she lost in the storm, so she could lay her eggs.

This nest (so petite, maybe a sparrow's?) sits on the bookcase in my bedroom, along with a handful of my favourite photos and mementos. It gives me a little lift every time I see it. There's something about it that speaks to my mind and soul at the moment.

Maybe that's because I have a little something like this:

living inside me. Thriving and growing stronger, and yet far too fragile to meet the world for another five months or so, when Spring arrives.

Twenty week foetus image: About.com