We didn't know how long she had been dead, not versed in country things. One night, coming home, Amber noticed the tiny mother had splayed her wing over the nest. This might have been a maternal, avian technique with which we were unfamiliar, some method of keeping her eggs safe from the stiff breezes as spring turned to summer.

When her posture was no different in the morning, I let Amber know the bird had died above our notice, and I would give her a respectful burial when I returned home. Amber could not leave the task that long undone, not on days with threatening heat, not when leaving the mother on the nest might keep away a father to tend the eggs. The father of this species���the eastern phoebe���does more than fertilize and flee, sticking around to raise the brood. I do not believe he sits on the eggs, so perhaps he didn't see much of a point in lingering until there were mouths to feed or nests to make. I don't recall having seen two, but I would rather preserve the fantasy of hoping he would arrive in time to claim his nascent children.

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