why not write a sestina?

Sestina

Whish! A little bird flew over my head
and I nearly dropped the broom.
She’s smart, of course, to move away
from the rafters and the empty nest
that seems raggedy, unkempt at best.
Last year’s, I would assume.

No babies this year, I’d assume
but up above my head
reflects past mother now, at best.
Now can I wield this big wide broom
and pull down this old and straggly nest?
It’s time to throw away.

Now, yes, my bird has flown away
for good, I would assume,
she’ll have to build another nest.
I turn away — I clear my head.
Now will I wield this big wide broom
and pull down hanging strings of leaves at best?

To clean and sort a bit, at best
(it’s hard to throw away),
I love to wield this big wide broom,
too big for me, I would assume.
Unwieldly, and way above my head
but then again, so was the nest.

How I’ll miss that yearly nest.
I’m sure one year it was her best.
Each year ’twas there above my head.
It’s sad she had to move away.
Will she return? I will assume,
unless she sees me with this broom.

I love to wield this big wide broom.
Don’t look above to find the nest.
No one else knew, I would assume.
That little bird has done her best,
now felt that she must go her way.
What sorrow now is in my head.

Now don’t assume my move not best
for with the broom I moved no nest,
intact, away, from above my head.