Hand me some twigs and tie up my hands:
What could I manage to build that would last for
more than a minute, and stand up to winds that
blow me half over? Failure is certain.
Even the pigeon, whose nests are so threadbare; they're
ugly, for certain; and functional?—hopefully.
How can we judge, though? We have not built our own
homes by picking up sticks with our mouths.
How can we trust that our houses won't falter
under the weight of the thickest snow?
Dare I inquire of my friend, the house-builder,
how in the heavens my rafters hold fast?
Is it more admirable — thus I wonder:
to be a pigeon, aesthetically clueless,
yet to have the whole art within me of
keeping myself and my loved ones secure?