The birds left. I think I annoyed them with all my gawking and picture taking. They kept looking at me like, "Do you have a freakin' life?" (Not really). Or, "Have you ever heard of 'privacy?' We're trying to nest here!"

Could she have any more 'tude? I think she's right. Just because I've never let a male (besides my dad) forage for me doesn't give me a right to prod into the lives of those creatures who do. Watching the doves (I think that's what they are) made me realize the instinctive nature of procreation. I think my maternal instincts got hijaked by some recessive salsa gene (my maternal grandmother's side), an occupation guaranteed to keep me single until the end of my days.

But I've decided to forgive my inherent weirdness and accept the fact that like Shirley Maclaine and, most likely, the birds who abandoned my porch, I'm most comfortable living out on a limb.

Just for today, I miss my bird friends (though, I don't think they miss me).