Box Story

Sitting out with a wheat beer in the early evening sunshine.
On the last visit to mum and dad's I was moved by the little bird box outside their kitchen window. It had been made by my dad - in fact he made quite a few round their garden - and I remembered him doing the dishes at the sink, watching the nesting blue tits. It always seemed to give him great pleasure to see them nest each spring. I've got to say that the memory of him there made my eyes quite wet, old softy that I am.
Anyway it was after a few days here that my attention was drawn to a little bird box on the fence.
At first I was a bit uncomprehending and then I realised it was my dad's old box, which must have been magically transported across town to its new resting place, or nesting place, hopefully.
How happy that did make me! It must be lurv.