A yard, I might add, with two resident dogs and two daily visitor dogs, all relentlessly in search of the kind of amusement that helpless baby birds could provide.
It's not that the mom was lazy, she worked her tiny feathered ass off building this nest. So now it dangles its precious cargo in my face, as a reminder of the precariousness of life.
This is probably how my parents felt when I moved to California and started my life on a fault-line. Or how they felt when I smoked cigarettes, or decided to go into the arts.
Good luck you stupid little birdies! May the wind never blow and the rains never come until your babies have hatched and grown and flown away.