An Intruder, Cont, Cont Poem by Morgan Michaels

The first thing I did next (actually rather fine)
Morning was to open the door and check on Pigeon.
I admire determination in man or bird
Even determination ventured for its own sake
There being no other course to choose;
That, notwithstanding, in all faith,
I expected to see Pigeon fled, the flower pot empty,
Her shambles of a nest gone, gone, gone,
Blown, stick over piddling stick under paltrey stick, to the four corners-
Swept away, like Giancarlo Giannini
In the so-named movie popular a few years back.
But (surprise) , weatherwise all was fine and morning-bright
Whereas the heavens were low and kvetchy, overnight,
Now they were high, preternaturally blue and cloud free;
Whereas, last night the rain made credible the flood-myth
Now the leaves were pliant, crisp and green,
Like the skin of youth, restored,
As though to show, despite the furor of the storm
They pulled through pretty good, anyhow.
Only some water stood placid in the bowls
To evidence the deluge of the night-
The bees already grazing in the buds
As though it never happened, the storm,
Nature being so resilient, usually,
Recovery, for her, just another part of the game-
Foregone, for granted taken, no big deal.
The stone was bathed in squares of yellow light
And barely any shade. But Pigeon? Prepared for the worst
And peeping between two parted fingers, hand
Otherwise shielding my eyes, I forced myself to look:
Ausgezeichnet! (or whatever the word is) there she was!
Quite unflapped and looking in fine feather
Sitting roundly on the flower-pot nest, half-sunk,
In that peculiar red-eyed trance
I called determination-if it wasn't just instinct working
Looking, if anything, cleaner than before,
Looking as if nothing happened,
As, indeed, nothing really had,
Storms unfraught with memories, correlations, remembered horrors
To those living in Nature. They simply are.

'Hi, Pigeon, ' I cried, quickly forgetting my fears, ....