Well, it could be that our dead bird was not our bird.
A day after finding the body I notice that there is still bird activity in the olive tree. There are comings and goings and all the zen-like business of egg sitting.
A month later there is a chick. Just one - not two as I had expected. He is a mess of a bird to begin with. The feathers are spindly, rudimentary affairs of fluff and spines that do not lie flat. He looks surprised to be alive.
His mother is fattening him. He is calling and trying his stunted chicken wings.
Spring tips into Summer and he tries to fly. I will be watching him almost as closely as his mother - heart in my mouth.
He is all uncertainty and adventure.
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