It's a small potted fig. A stunted plant version of a tree with two stalks in the name of trunks and just one and half dozen leaves. But the leaves are big, heart shaped, enough for an ashy prinia to twist a single leaf and make it a funnel best by cupping with cotton and grass. There were four chocolate colored tiny eggs. They are hatchlings now. Always with their beaks open, forcing their parents to fetch soft worms day in and day out. They need lots of food to grow at a fast rate and cash on survival chances.
The little potted fig. A small house tiny warblers and beetles. My emotion planted it. My care gives it water. It can't survive without the continuity of my attachment. It has no ground under its roots to sap water and nourishment from mother earth of its own. So I have to be present in the picture for its journey. It even gives tiny figs which the bulbuls enjoy eating.
And will the nest survive if not for the camouflaging greenery in surrounding pots? It can't. So one's survival depends on a bigger ecosystem than one thinks.
These little ones will need loads of luck to be safe from the rascals mentioned below:
The semi feral, semi domesticated lazy man named Poplaine by yours truly. He visits the garden many times in a day and now sleeps on the wall. Or pretending to sleep because he knows it's the preferred route of a squirrel. One of the ashy prinia parents has to draw him away by feigning to be an injured bird, cajoling him away repeatedly to the bushes outside the walls.
The wire walking lampoon who loves to snatch such soft little meaty dumplings from foliage of trees as starters for his breakfast. I chased him away and he nearly toppled from his cable walking.
And anong all this, a village poet wonder stuck at all this interplay of contradictory elements on the surface but a deep unity beneath all this segmentation on the surface.
