I had a small heart break this week. We put an offer on what I thought was a house predestined to be mine. It was called Robin’s Roost. A sweet Tudor cottage tucked in a woodland wonderland. Previously owned by an ornithologist and tenderly outfitted with eaved bedrooms, a tiny bird knocker, and a bright glass conservatory.
I thought for sure the robin’s nest I’d found was a sign.
When I called Nana to tell her we didn’t get it she had more news for me.
The hatched baby robins had died.
Sometimes things are not what we thought they would be. And hoping may be for naught.
But for all my tears the woodlands are still blooming their secrets. The tiny birds who have survived can still be heard. And though eggs and hearts may break, tomorrow has its own star.
Bird by bird, He says. One Robin down.
And many more feathers in this life to attempt flight.