The Fallen Robin's Nest, a poem

Tightly-wound wisps
Of winter-gathered grass
Wrapped warmly round
A bright blue brood of eggs—

     Or so I must assume.

The eggs are long since gone,
Their delicate cradle clattered
To the sidewalk far below
(By what calamity
Or for what sacred purpose
I may never know).

Did he who kept his holy vigil
Over half a million plague-wrung final breaths
Also watch this humbly-feathered bower as it fell—
Does he see it now,
Discarded there in the streaming runnels
Of an early spring rain?

     So I must assume,

Assuming that the primal passion
Of a mother fluttering home
To find no chicks remain that she might
Gather together beneath her brooding wing—
That it must also sting
With His, for ours,
Knowing that our best laid plans
Do not gang aft agley
But for a holy reason.