Violence on my porch

Damn squirrels.

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.


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