I wrote: “Momma bird built a nest in the holly bush right outside my door, and now there are three bebes in there, and she feeds them when they’re hungry and sits on them when they’re cold, and if I go near she tries to distract me by squawking from another part of the yard, and if you mess with my birdies, I kill you.”

One morning, they were gone, except for this last bebe to leave the nest. I found him sitting by himself on the curved pine straw, perhaps for a moment of reflection before flying out into the world. He just looked at me.

Now all that’s out my window is an empty nest, darkening and fraying in the elements.