She has chosen wisely,
safe place, curl of drainpipe
against garage wall.
She weaves string and twig
into a cupped palm 
for the bright, blue eggs 
that will surely come.

Storms approach and I worry
about all her hard work,
these chores of motherhood.
But she knows what she is doing.
Finally, she settles in, 
down. Plumbs out her body,
spreads her feathers wide.
This incubator of warmth
and love.