The four blue Robin eggs in my photo have now hatched. The parents built this superbly constructed nest in one of our hanging baskets under the eave on our porch. We are able to see the comings and goings from our dining room window without disturbing or interfering with them.
See how they weaved the dry grasses around the mud cup. It struck me that we are weavers of words. That said I'm trying to weave a murder/mystery. It's a departure from my usual stuff. I'm not rushing it.