Ready and gone.

My branch is bowing, the nest is weak,
poor egg gone cold, a late June fertilisation,
under the arches of naturally woven wood
sits a small, mange-suffering fox -
who is ready to jump.

My branch is bowing, the night owl does speak,
the wind blows through the rushes, a passing sensation
across the backs of squirrels, across little egret's hood,
the egg is blown from nest - down, down for the fox
who is ready to jump.