Birds, and how.

So watch: I'm going to be all thematic and stuff.

First, we took the kids yesterday to an event at one of the local nature centers where they could see a bird of prey up close (a rough-legged hawk, this time) and hear a little talk about her. We like this kind of thing, such that it turns out each kid actually has a toy bird of prey to bring along for the fun. Grace's is a perigrine falcon and Peter's is a great horned owl (identified by the nature center expert) that used to be Mike's. We saw a turkey vulture as we were driving up that was, frankly, the biggest damned bird I've ever seen. {alert readers: now we're doing a transition. Yes, I'm finding myself teaching a lot of writing basics these days; why do you ask?}

Speaking of birds of unusual size, I had a thing happen to me today that wasn't quite my fault, but it felt as though it was a confluence of events that could be traced back to me. Let me describe it in order of phenomena observed. 1. That Christmas wreath on the side of the house could really stand to be swapped out for a pretty spring one! 2. We're ready for church but don't need to leave for a few minutes - how about I do that now. 3. Oh look, some bird poop under the wreath. 4. Holy $*#&! There's a bird nest! Oh, Jesus: I have just spilled baby birds and unhatched eggs onto the deck chair where I carelessly laid the wreath. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Birdies. Holy goodness, they're tiny [!!!] and totally vulnerable and you're not supposed to touch them, right? 5. Reinforcements arrive, in response to my incoherent shrieking about having murdered baby birds, and calmly scoop teeny birds (3) and eggs (2) back into the next and affix the damned wreath back onto the wall. 6. I mourn all through church about being a murderer of teeny birds. The kids are largely unworried and reassure me that the mommy will come back, perhaps because that's the kind of mothering they're accustomed to - I may bitch a lot, but I don't up and desert them. 7. When we get back from church, we confirm that the mommy bird has indeed returned, and all is well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well. No photos of the tiny birds, though. They prefer to recuperate anonymously. Although we may sneak a few pictures as they get bigger.

Finally, Easter eggs, which... wait for it... come (as you might be aware) from birds! We got them at the grocery store, though, and dyed them up right pretty. The kids each did six, we managed to spill only one container of dye on the hardwood floors, and they produced a lovely rainbow of eggs, which the Easter Bunny obligingly hid while we were at church worrying (or not) about the fate of our teeny robins. The egg hunt was good fun and the plastic eggs filled with chocolate were almost as popular as the real eggs. One real egg was overlooked, our careful accountants noted its absence and set out to find it and restore balance to the universe, and were successful, at least egg-wise.