Bird's Nest

When Robby and I were in Visalia recently, the rain and wind had knocked down this nest. I thought it was neat, so I took a picture. It made me think of a poem by Emily Dickinson that I read with my 9th graders.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.