The Phoebes quickly
are outgrowing their nest.
It’s a Phoebe pile,
constantly adjusting
to fit,
but it doesn’t really
anymore. One is always
on the edge—that is
the Phoebe that moves the most,
the one I suspected
would take flight first.
It took up the most personal space,
flapped its wings,
groomed under its wings
with its beak. As it moved around
more and more,
the other three seemed to voice
their displeasure.

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Then, there were three.
That busy Phoebe
took flight.

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