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  • It was a perfect nest, sealed with mud on the inside, and intricate webs of sod on the outside.
    A bird's fortress, shelter, and abode - I found vacated on the ground below.
    Where did the birds move when their home flew out of the tree, or bush?
    Where was their temporary housing as they carefully reconstructed a new nest?
    Did they fly far, far away, perhaps to a new town, with less wind, and more branches?
    Or did they remain in the tundra near their birthplace, to be with family and friends?

    I, too, left my perfect nest six months ago. My father and sister had died, and I thought it wise to be closer to family.
    Yet, my habitat had been my perfect place, with magical sunsets, and pristine waters.
    The sun always shone, and the red rock held secrets that only those who listened, could hear.
    The wind blew with such force, that the sand penetrated the crevices of my dwelling, but I found it breathtaking.
    The ravens and bats would swoop low at me in the night, and the coyotes would yip at each full moon, but I found it divine.
    I had found my home, my perfect nest, the place I was meant to thrive - until life knocked my abode out of the tree.
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