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  • I was cleaning up the yard on Easter afternoon when I discovered this piece of fragile shell on the strip of grass next to the curb. Colored a delicate blue, it most likely had been the temporary home of a baby robin. I was worried, considering its location, that perhaps it had fallen out of the tree during the recent storm, or had become a meal for a roaming neighborhood cat on the prowl or a curious dog going for its daily walk with its owner.

    I cradled it gently in my garden-gloved hand for a moment, thinking about how precarious life and death can be.

    Then I returned to raking leaves in the yard. In flew a fat robin, taking a moment to rest on the fencepost. In its mouth was a wriggling worm.

    Easter brunch for some squawking baby robins? I hope so.
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