She inspires me. She may be mad. She may not even be expecting. But she persists. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Winding small piles of straw on the narrow beam under the drip edge beside each cross beam. And each day, her work is blown across my porch and into my hanging baskets. But she doesn’t give up. She doubles her efforts, then triples them. The debris grows. Eventually, some of her work begins to take shape. And then the spitting begins. The mud. The moss. Across my porch. Until finally, one of her SEVEN simultaneous attempts stays put just as I rehearse the emptying of my own nest–my second son away at camp (and soon to fly.) Her efforts–so late in the season–like mine, at 54, attempting the delivery of a third child, the conception of a work of art, began 7 years ago. Straw. Spit. Mud. Moss. Another revision. Another revision. Persist.