The scent of jasmine,
there contrived,
gardened,
placed along our path,
around this front door,
taking me
to that backdoor,
where a blackbird nested,
in an accidental
frame of the same vine;
I wasn’t tall enough to see in,
but a partial view was secured
by a discarded egg,
and later, a bonus, for me,
just a kid, a fledgling, dead.