Project homes for birds.

I'm making a list of my favorite things.
At the top, I'll scribble crunching leaves,
not because it's semantically ambiguous
but because doing so burns my the bottoms
of my feet. My heels chap and smell like
campfire after a few minutes.

Crunching leaves is like gathering up clothes
that rest in a pile inside an open closet
and pulling on loose threads around the neck
until the shirt is a scarf that barely covers your neck.

And when that scarf turns into one long thread
I'm going to let it go and hope it blows across
yards and a bird can use it to make a nest. See,
the leaves are gone from the ground,
they're all part of nests. They're shelter to mothers
bading wings around a chick's shivering head.

Okay. Maybe I'm selfish that I destroy potential shelter
for birds. The leaves.