Bird brains

A pair of pigeons have been scouting my balcony for a place to make nest for the past two weeks . To discourage them , I planted petunias in my pots , and placed them directly in the path to their dreams of domestic bliss . 

I had rolled in pots inside wrought iron stands , like mounted cannons , ready for war . 

 But they out witted me . 

One night I heard lot of flurry of wings and feathers . I knew they were conducting nocturnal recon and attack stratagems . 

Next morning I found my beloved two toned petunia blossoms licking the floor , as their base had been flattened by avian diligence , splaying the green shoots , now wilted, and the purple and white fine petals , grazed the floor , pitifully . 

I removed the said pot .

The wounded warrior was replaced by a sturdy rose plant  , with little or no girth . The pot and the plant were both slim, like a ballistic missile  . The stem was sturdy , almost wooden , Trojan Horse fashion . The plant was armoured with thorns .

Hah .Beat this , birdbrains !! I exclaimed , in my mind , like a triumphant mammal  .

Next morning a flimsy , but sturdy bed of twigs emerged , balancing itself on two pots . One rose plant , two the fallen warrior , petunia . 

The twigs had been sourced from the dried branches of rose , de thorned , possibly by sharp beaks . The nest was taking shape , despite my best efforts . 

The maid refused to throw the nest and thereby " destroy someone's home " , an age old superstition in Hinduism ." Lest trouble befalls the thrower's home "

So the nest stayed . Precarious , and porous , and fragile . 

Next day  , two tiny eggs appeared .  Tiny , white , fragile hand  grenades . Not in the nest , but on the pristine , tiled , swept and mopped floor . The tiny circle of twigs had given away , under the weight of the next generation , and had parted . 

Loopholes . 

We both looked at it warily. 

My maid picked up the eggs, gingerly , and placed them gently back on the ressurected twig bed .

They promptly  fell through again , this time , with a tiny crack and splat .

The yolks run pitifully out .

The pigeon parents watched from the sunshade , red eyes locked onto the human balcony , cocking their heads , in disbelief and disappointment . 

They thought to themselves " Another one bites the dust, ehh, another one gone. " 

Together they flew away , never to appear again . At least , for now , they had surrendered . 

My maid , playing the Sherlock Holmes , rationally concluded that the eggs must have been laid on the floor itself . The twig nest having been demolished by a rival probably . 

In the end , in this war of wits , our birds had probably been betrayed by friendly fire .