In the rosebush beside the sidedoor, a robin is making a space for a family. This is the temporary home she has built, the nest she constructed for eggs she will hatch into babies to feed and fledge. I am no bird. Not even a common robin, tho I am acquainted with lean-tos of all types. I am not mad but nomad. Not her, but mother. I am moved, woven, to talk about this blue—a blue hovering close to both sky and green, a blue that once went unnamed because its carpet stretched overhead or underfoot—fields we enter into as if empty. No field is empty, nor are we. Fields, skies, souls: these are ecosystems. Oxygen, tall grass, and self are just the species we note. Shell and meadow mark infinite potential, except both and none of it is true.

A hatching calculus:
all you could have been finds
its limit in what you are.

And so you go on feeding the next stage, you open its curtain of leaves, ready to witness death or flight. Every entrance, each exit deserves endless measures of wonder.