Poor Mrs. Pheasant. There she was, trying to renew the blood line and produce a clutch of eggs to grow into the next generation of pheasants. But a marauder found her eggs, and instead, made a breakfast of them, so that he (or she?) had the nourishment needed to set about producing the next generation of their own species.
At least this marauder was keeping body and soul together. We live in shooting country, and the countryside is crammed with pheasants, imported here in vast numbers simply so they can be the target of barely competent marksmen enjoying their yearly shooting break. Some dead birds find their way to the table via local butchers. Many corpses are quite simply … discarded.
This blackbird may have been luckier. Once hatched, the baby blackbird’s shell simply fell to the ground beneath the nest.
By the way, the featured photo is of male pheasants. Their female counterparts are somewhat dowdier.
For Becky’s #Squares Renew.
From Pyrenees to Pennines 
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