The bluebird stood in the tree, a green worm in his mouth, but he had nowhere to go with it. There was no nest.
Instinct told him he had little ones to care for; so, on autopilot, he collected the worm. He held the squirming green body for long moments, hopping along the branch, looking down toward where the nest was just yesterday. Nothing.
He finally ate it himself.
The evening before, I’d looked out my window to see what my bluebirds were up to—like I did about 100 times most days. I had never been a birder before, and probably drove my Facebook friends crazy with my requests to identify new birds I spotted around my home in the woods of rural Virginia.
“Newbies,” they’d scoff to themselves. “So annoying.”
But I’d become attached to the birds who lived in my backyard, as I became attached to all the…
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