Stepping on egg shells

The other day I found egg shells underneath the ceder tree outside my front door. The shells were a light robin's egg blue, although I doubt they were actually robin's eggs; more likely they were one of the many pushy sparrows that frequent my bird feeder. 

On my nature hikes over the last few days I've discovered additional egg shells, each a treasure of it's own and such a delight to find.

One was very tiny, the size of my little finger nail, and speckled brown and tan. Another was a deep blue with a very oddly pointed oval shape. It's sad when I find an egg that has fallen out of the nest full of its failed promise.

I hear the urgent tweet of the tiny birds in the tree outside my door each time I walk by. They are hungry to be fed and all too soon they will be gone and all will be quiet. But for now, in exchange for a tiny bit of seed, I've been given the gift of egg shells and a communion with a bird family.