Life and Death in Suburbia

Our bird squatter, Miss Havisham, is gone:

Her nest was on the porch, with three broken eggs spilled near it.  She flew in, fluttered, flew out; she did not understand.  The nest was nothing like other bird nests I have seen — just a soft concoction of fluff from cottonwoods, straw, bits of string.  I am surprised it lasted as long as it did, as precariously perched as it was on the pillar.  She hung out for a couple more hours, sometimes on the porch roof, more often on our Charlie Brown tree, and then she was gone.

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