The Tree Nest

I saw a bird trembling with the cold,
building a tree nest in the rose bush
dry leaves and wooden sticks surround
Hairy lined deep and snugly finished.

Intricate baskets, about three inches tall
Wrens, reaching up from the ground. 
In acrobatic style protected from a fall
using strong-thorny reeds, they wound.

Weaving did not cover it all the way,
Hanging a bird castle safe on the limb
The Robin could feel the sun each day,
And keep safe when the shadows darken.

Nest nettled in trees partly hidden,
Perched on branches flying to and fro.
Through the shimmer of sun and rain
lodges insecure when the gales blow.

With feathers on sticks, build the tree nest,
When completed, it looks like a work of art.
Brought to mate in their timid quest,
with feet and beaks not consciously neat.

The tree nest in the cloud is an open house.
Where boughs there are free, in every tree,
dancing in the sun and larking, at ease
But perhaps too high for you and me.