Among the debris of the foliage left in the wake of the storm,
Lay the mud house of the Hornero discarded and torn.
Cracked open like an easter egg,
Now two halves, the inhabitants long fled.
How I had marveled at the ingenuity of the nest,
How much time and dedication the Hornero did invest.
Then one evening came the merciless storm,
Angry flashes of lighting lit up the lawn.
At first we stood in wonder,
Foreboding dark clouds and far off thunder.
The flashes of lighting was like watching a play,
Or a far off bombing raid mutely targeting its prey.
Then in an instant the wrath was upon us;
An almighty blast of wind and rain downward thrust.
We rushed inside and struggled to close windows and doors.
The house was like a boat that had lost its rudder and oars,
A vessel left to its providence, bobbing in raging seas,
As the storm tore through the garden, ripping limbs off trees.
And then as quickly as it had come,
The violence left with its howling drum.
The following day I inspected the damage,
The havoc that had taken place had been savage:
But worse of all was to see the Horneros broken home,
It reminded me that life is fragile and on loan,
That we are but a blade of grass,
And must bow to the wind when the storm decides to pass.