A family of birds has taken up residence inside the hanging fern on my front porch. They are surprisingly neat…no bird poo on the railings or other evidence of their presence. I wouldn’t even know they were there except when you open the front door, Mama Bird goes whooshing out of the fern and perches herself in the crepe myrtle tree waiting for peace and quiet again. Well, last night, around 9:30, I took Honey outside to praise me for the excellent job I did repairing a damaged porch railing. We must have woken Mama Bird up, because WHOOSH went the fern. Only she went the wrong way–back toward the house instead of out in the yard.
She spent the next three minutes slamming against the porch ceiling, then dropping down, then slamming into it again trying to find her way out. I, of course, dropped like I was in the midst of a drive by shooting and scrambled into the house on my knees while Honey shouted “She’s going crazy! She’s going crazy!” Now I have the knees (and, somehow, elbows) of a seven year old–big oozy scrapes covered in Band Aids and Neosporin. Damned birds.