Just weeks ago a mourning dove made a nest in this spindly tree.
We tsked at that birdbrain, choosing such a precarious place.
But we stopped throughout the day to look at the nest.
And then the eggs.
And then glimpses of wee baby birds under that dove.
Once or twice we spotted the chicks, mama gone on a short trip.
Between Sunday and this morning, though, the nest was emptied.
This morning, when there were only a pair of adult doves in the tree.
They seemed to be searching, hopping from branch to branch.
Wondering where those fuzzy chicks might have gone.
I wondered and searched with them--not even a speck of fluff on the ground.
These things happen.
Branches can be spindly.
Sometimes the wind can really blow.
And we are left mourning.
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