The wind storm that roared through yesterday seems to have taken a nascent avian life, and I felt a brief pang of sadness at seeing the broken egg shell on thr ground. There were no mourners for the former occupant of the shell, and I suppose even the bird's mother had yet to develop much of an attachment to what was little more than a warm lump the size of large grape.Maybe the grey April skies that dumped a brief snowfall this morning brought down my spirits, or maybe I am simply in a funk. Yet the sight of the unfulfilled life haunted me for more than a few minutes, and even hours later the cracked shell seems depressing.
