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.