When I build my nest, I will build it with handwritten letters, words whispered in vulnerable moments, eyelashes, canned jam. I will weave a structure out of sentiments to act as a sanctuary from myself. For myself and from myself. I will be wise enough to know that wings grow weary. I will be, but not today. Today I forget. Tonight I obliterate.
The bones in your hand began to demand my attention. They were so noticeable, so sharp. I placed my palm on top in an attempt to disguise what my eyes didn't wish to see. You age and you grow thin. You grow up and your skin fades.
I talk too much about birds. They are too poetic to ignore. Hollow bones and nests and flight. Hatching, migrating, living without teeth. You don't bite, you fly. You don't chew, you swallow.
But your ground is covered now with snow. It won't be plowed ever because no one knows of the roads you take. You hide your path, you have your own direction, you don't need to advertise your biological urge. Just build for continuity, not congratulations.
You are in charge of your construction. Use your tools and your instinct. Will you evolve? Or will you become extinct?