She circled tirelessly, hauling in grass and mud. I quietly watched it grow. Every day, when she was out, I picked up the strewn grass and scraped the sticky droppings from the front door. One afternoon, I heard tiny chirps--almost inaudible --and leaned closer to the window.
Next morning, the nest was gone. My eyes darted to the floor-- a pink blob of flesh lay in a tiny pool of red. Eyes unopened. Raw lines of claws. Questions and sorrow rooted my feet.
I waited for her to return and mourn. No one came. I dug a hole beside the rosebush.
Writing for the Prompt Pot