I am a strong bird.
It has been cold. The wind rattles our nest. This meadery seems to be busy. People come and go and gawk. The egg is cold. The twigs are fragile. The people come. The night is cold.
But I am a strong bird.
In hindsight, I may have picked a more protected area. Above a porch that does not have so much traffic or in a place where the wind was less harsh. I may have built my home in that barn I see sometimes or in the trees behind this building. Hindsight, however, is behind me. I must focus on the future. And I am a strong bird.
I wonder if my egg will be strong. I hope that it will be. It will soar among the those trees and pick worms from the dusty lot near its birthplace and perhaps it will build a nest someday, perhaps in the barn that looks so warm compared to here. I hope it will be a strong bird.
It is open mic night, and the people are arriving. They will point their odd little black boxes at me and snap the lights in my eyes and I will stare, braced against the coming cold of the evening, and warm my egg. Because I am a strong bird.
Who would like a glass of mead.