Beneath The Eaves

Every spring they return,
to the place beneath my eaves.
In their absence, the porch is just a porch.
With their arrival, it becomes something more.

They weave on beak and toe,
constructing a space where once there was none,
filling the emptiness with purpose,
transforming the void with meaning.

Morning spills over their work,
each branch a testament to persistence,
each dusk a gentle completion.

When they leave,
the space beneath the eaves is just space again,
waiting for their return,
to be made whole once more.