Robin's egg blues

"They're at it again. Silly birds!" Robyn smiled affectionately at her almost-namesakes. They were building their nest in the roses that arched over the main path from her driveway to her door again this year. Back and forth they flew, carrying the bits and pieces that they would use to weave into a very sloppy looking nest.

Every year it was the same. The female would sit her eggs, hunching down as low as she could get as the family went to and fro beneath her. The first year, they walked the long way around, not wanting to disturb her, but as the years went by, they gradually gave up that courtesy. Now they looked right into the nest as they passed.

Every year, the babies hatched; sometimes the nest didn't hold and they fell to the ground. When Robyn or her sisters found them alive, they gently put them back, knowing that the mother bird would have no trouble accepting them. When the babies died, the girls used to hold funerals; Robyn couldn't quite remember when they'd stopped.

She watched them for a few minutes more; then went on with her day.

© 2008 Cynthia Newcomer Daniel

Sterling silver and turquoise bracelet. Hand fabricated.