I find eggs, and nests, endlessly fascinating — magical, sacred, evocative things — how they are like a world unto themselves, heralding new life and unknown possibilities. Around 3 years ago, I found a small egg belonging to a pigeon, in the same large flower pot pictured above and, I admit, went slightly bird mad for about a year or two...
Said pigeon, who laid that first fateful egg, let me feed her, help her to build a nest (when papa pigeon was late, absent or lazy, who knows) as well as watch her young ones grow:
The picture below, for example, is with a youngster (from yet another pigeon family) who lost his dad before he could teach him how to fly - so I became especially close to the little guy.
When, eventually, he did take to the sky, the young guy would return to my balcony every evening, at 5pm, to spend some quality time and groom my facial hair (presumably, as a form of bonding/appreciation):
Now, Back to That Abandoned Duck Egg!
With all the avian activity on my balcony that came with raising pigeons (attacking hawks, squawking parrots, etc...) I was a little surprised, but not very, when a duck showed up on my balcony, one morning. I was more surprised when I learned that the male of this type of duck, Muscovy, does not fly, and their more attractive female counterpart does - but not very high - as we were living on the 10th floor.
After a short investigative visit, the shy graceful creature flew away. The next day to my wonder and delight, I found she'd laid a large egg in that lucky, bird-friendly flower pot. I didn't know what to do with it, since mama was not there, so I let it be. For the next 9 days, mama duck would return to lay one egg a day and, before she flew off for the evening (presumably to the nearby cemetery, where I'd seen such ducks) she would, carefully, bury her eggs (out of predator's sight?) and cover them with this amazing, cottony/ silky web.
I was on cloud 9 and would strain to catch a glimpse of the swan-like duck, as she came and went. Then, one fine day, she decided to stay, and sit all day long, on her family-to-be:
We developed a tentative rapport, she and I (she was not as friendly as the pigeons) but she'd let me spray her with a fine mist, on hot days, and would proceed to groom herself. The pigeons continued returning to my busy balcony, and they, reluctantly, accepted that they'd been somewhat unseated, certainly, in the now-occupied flower pot and to an extent in my heart, too, as I was primarily preoccupied with making the elegant newcomer comfortable.
Then, one day, just as the marvelous duck had come out of the blue, so she disappeared. I kept waiting and wondering, but she never returned. Had my overly-eager attentions frightened her off, was the activity on my balcony excessive for her taste, was she wounded, dead? I would never know. I was only left with the abandoned flower poet and her unattended eggs (which never hatched). Emboldened by her long absence, the pigeons took over, once again...