I found it along a worn path in my yard, this perfect bird nest. No broken eggs nearby let me hope that this nest was no longer needed and the chicks had flown to their own lives in trees nearby.
But the nest! The nest! I carefully picked it up and brought it to the studio, where I could study it.
I sat it on a satin cloth and pulled my lamp over to light it. It was beautifully crafted from small sticks, moss, grass, feathers, and white dog hairs. Every piece of its construction was fitted together with the others in such a way that its form did not shake or shift as I moved it.
There are times when the hurry-scurry of life wraps me in a cloak of I'm-too-busy-to-stop-and-see. It seems that this cloak becomes a strait jacket of ever increasing immobility and distance from what touches my soul.
And then, I found the nest. Such a small object, and yet it touches me so deeply, I am left gasping for breath. The strait jacket falls away. And I am back. Trying, in my own way, to be free.
Leonard Cohen "Bird On the Wire."