Octavio Quintanilla writes

Loneliness

As a boy, I’d climb trees,

reach into nests birds would leave unattended.

I’d fill my hand with small eggs, and often

one or two hatchlings would stare at me

from behind the sprigs.

There were times I wanted

to take them home, keep them as my own,

raise them, imagined their beaks

would one day open to call me, “Father.” 

Mockingbird Hatchlings -- Annie Glacken