Friday evening I found a dead finch below the apple tree in the front yard. I didn't think much of it, as shortly after we moved in to this house we saw a dead finch far out of reach on the porch roof. I figured it was that same unfortunate bird, finally come to ground, and kept on with my chores.
Later there was a huge blow of restless wind... keeping us awake for most of Friday night. In the wee hours of Saturday morning we heard a finch ruckus of some sort, but the rest of Saturday we ourselves were headless chickens, preparing for a party.
On Sunday we realized we hadn't seen the momma finch at the wreath nest in a while, but we couldn't remember the last time we'd seen her. Friday? Saturday? I figured the eggs should have been hatching this weekend, so where was she?
Monday, no momma.
Tuesday, no momma... but we did see an obviously unwell finch on the porch roof. I haven't looked today to see if there's another finch carcass in the yard. I think it's safe to say our grand-eggies won't be hatching.
It's difficult not to take this nest failure personally... as if we ourselves neglected our duties as grand-egg-parents. There are six perfect eggs still sitting there... I suppose I'll give it a couple more days before I take them down and candle them to see if perhaps they just weren't fertile.
The conditions are no longer right here for a do-over attempt: the roofers arrived this morning and started sliding large chunks of ancient roof-matter on to the ground. It's none too sedate a situation for ME, and I understand what's happening. I can't image a bird wanting to set up housekeeping here for a bit.
Sometimes paying attention is no fun.