A sparrow laid some eggs in one of the ferns hanging from a rusty hook on my front porch. I went out to the porch Saturday, scaring a squirrel hunched over the nest. He looked at me and skittered into a tree, spitting and glaring and glaring and spitting.
Angry, I guess.
Peeked into the fern, saw the body of a barely formed broken little sparrow. Sat in one of the wicker chairs, a little sad, frankly. Rearranged the books on the wicker table, then went into the house.
I wanted to leave to do an errand. The mother sparrow was flitting around. She wanted her babies.
When I returned 45 minutes later, a small, broken egg lay on the wicker table next to the books I had rearranged. Couldn’t have fallen from the nest. Had to have been put there. By the squirrel, I figured.
Is that even possible?
Damn thing was so mad at me it had given me a gift.
I haven’t seen the sparrow since.