Dropped on the path from above this

minor masterpiece in feather, horse-hair,

moss and grass the size of my fist,

in its just-abandoned perfection

something of the kitchens of the disappeared

or dispossessed – breakfast a mossy fuzz,

coffee trembling on the table –

or the kitchen where we find ourselves

in this nest of hills and where I bring

this unit of beauty, this interior knot

just as the news on the radio drops

us onto the path of history, as ifwe've

woken into a field at dawn – naked, wet,

the steam still rising.