Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Poetic thoughts: zero.
The birds were singing their tiny brains out today. It was quite wonderful. Sometimes I wish I could sing and fly but I can’t so it doesn’t pay to dwell on it. What I can do, and they can’t, is lay two hundred and ten eggs a year! (Well, used to). A sparrow once told me she laid a whopping eighteen eggs in three clutches one summer; what a miserly effort.
Oh, and of course I can write wonderful poetry, too. But not today.
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