“Whoa! Watch where you’re going!”
A bird flew from a bush with a great commotion of flapping and feathers. It landed on a branch on top of a pile of sticks a few steps away from the bush from which it burst and glares. The little bird redefined the cliché’ if looks could kill as it continued to stare at the intruder with beady, black eyes.
“Must be something good in there, eh little bird?” the intruder purred with a throaty voice and crept closer to the bush.
Sure enough, a nest was tucked into a low crook in the scrub bush. It was loving sewn together by beak and claw, made of twigs, trash, mud, and a piece of string. The nest was dangerously low, just low enough for a little peek by any curious, four-legged passerby.
“Eggs! There’s four blue eggs in there!”
The still-warm orbs nestled together in the center of the nest, siblings through the shell.
And through the next life.
The cat reached up with one furry, violent paw and whacked the nest down to the ground already littered with fading mulch and dead leaves. Speckled blue eggs rolled out over the debris in zig-zag paths. Each egg was neatly stopped by the pink, waiting tongue of the cat that loves scrambled eggs.
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