Bones and nests

"your actual experience is far to vast for you to physically follow." -Jane Roberts

I was standing in front of your house,
holding my bike and facing west.

The end of your street was overgrown with weeds,
the asphalt of the street ended in dirt.

It had never been like that before, not that I could remember
and I spoke out loud as I walked towards.
'Has it always been this way?'
You did not reply.

But I approached walking my bike,
stepping carefully onto the dirt and curving my way around the tall silver weeds.
The trim of my skirt catching on the dried brambles.

Train tracks appeared, carving a silver path through the sandy dirt
the whiteness and warmth of abandoned orchards in summertime filled my senses.

The small layers of sticks, dried grass, leaves and hair collected in piles by the wind.

I paused, leaning my bike and slowly kicking the kick stand out, I remembered to be careful of the goat heads.
I envisioned one with a long spike pushing into the black rubber of my tire,
and could see a small gathering of white sharp stars already stuck in my front wheel.

And stood before a chain link fence, grown over with vines and dead leaves, and I knelt to find a nest.

Silver and black wispy brood patch feathers twisted over and around with grasses and bits of thread.
Bones sticky with fur, rocks, and small brown bits of cloth from a toy animal. I bent to touch one of the bones, larger than any thing belonging to a bird,
and something tittered in the branches overhead.

Startled, I let the shiver pass.
and stood to turn away.