The sparrow flits in and out of the elbow hanging
from the rusted gutter, a gap offering egress.
The elbow has just enough bend to support
bits of leaves and pinestraw and grass,
but the elbow has lost its downspout, victim
of a redbud toppled alongside it. So as scrabbles
whisper against aluminum, bits of nest
fall past the paint trail on brick and dangling metal straps.
At the next big rain the nest will wash out.
Whatever is in it will fall. But that is the future.
This is the here. This is the here and the now.
And for now, this here is home.
***

Today’s poem came from two prompts: Poetic Asides’ “Write a future poem” and The Music In It inspiration “Here and Now.”