Mrs. Robin sat on her beautiful, blue eggs all weekend as we came and went. I said hello and good-bye each time. She seemed facing a different way each time so I assume she was adjusting her warmth and rotating her eggs. She watched me with her beady, little, suspicious, fearful eyes. She was there when last I walk Gabriel Sunday evening.
This morning when I went out. No Mrs. Robin. No eggs. Nest askew in the branches. I am heartbroken. My would-be grandchildren are no more for this season. At least not from this laying. Was it a squirrel? A cat? Some other nasty creature?
And, of course, I am feeling guilty because of the bush trimming that exposed her to begin with. Sorry, Mrs. Robin. Although there is no sorry that is enough for an unborn child. It is a grief too deep even to be shared. Sorry, Mrs. Robin. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
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