On a calm spring day after a heavy wind storm I came across a fallen nest supported by fresh budding grass, cigarette butts and the remnants dog shit. I knelt down to inspect this knitted wooden bowl shaped wonder. When I reached for it, I disturbed it in its new resting spot and as I did, I felt a sudden urge to look up to see what was around me. I felt as though I was being watched, perhaps I was overwhelmed by the anticipation of being attacked by a flock of angry birds like in a Hitchcock film. Or perhaps it was a feeling of being self-conscious as in committing a crime by looking at and toying with someone’s property, which it was after-all, at-least it was at one time. Perhaps I was being looked at by its former owner, a bird who just lost their home watching over me from a safe distance. Maybe it was a trap, maybe it was bate set by a cunning much more intelligent species. Or maybe it was just me and the sparrow taking inventory of the situation and my winged friend allowing him or herself a slice of respite before the rebuild. He or she looking down camouflaged by the trees above and I looking up trying to map out the place where this nest may have once perched. This spot has new meaning for me now. A place I frequently walk to and from, attached by a memory of this experience. I leaned over to this fallen home to pick it up, now mine to hold, perhaps own out of a compulsive selfish fetishized inquisitive desire. To look at and admire.