Slacks for Ella Funt

The forsythia plant has had a bit of a challenging life in that both I and E’s former roommates were convinced it was dead and attempted to throw it away. It does look extremely dead in the winter, but each spring it buds and blossoms in its scraggly way. We call it Earl and it lives on the fire escape. Apparently, it’s native to the area, and we don’t do anything for it—it gets watered when it rains, but that’s about it.
Last week, we noticed that a dove was hanging around in the pot. Eventually it left and we realized that there was a small egg in the pot. Over the next few days, the bird brought a few twigs in a half-hearted attempt at nest making, and sat on the egg during the days, leaving the egg alone at night. Since it’s been cold, we knew the egg couldn’t make it after being exposed at night. I looked up mourning dove behavior, and apparently she’s supposed to have a partner to take turns sitting on the egg. We’re not sure if he’s a deadbeat, or why he’s not there.

We’ve had torrential rain all day, and no sign of the bird. We assume she’s given up. It’s quite a nice little egg, but the bird seemed to not quite know what it was doing.