There it lay.  The beautiful remains of a radiant blue robin egg, cracked in two and void of its contents.  Directly above, perched in the high limbs of an elm tree, sits a bird’s nest.  It, too, is empty – void of its contents.

What happened here?  Was it a tragic accident?  Did mama robin spread her wings in some fast muscular spurt, accidentally knocking her egg from its high perch?

Maybe it was a horrendous murderous plot.  Perhaps the beautiful blue egg caught the attention of some nasty raptor, circling high above.  He could has swooped down, snatched the egg, slurped down the yolk and ditched the evidence.  That might explain the wide tire tracks ear the scene: a police investigative truck, or a local television film crew who came to report on the gruesome discovery.

It could also be that the tracks came from the mobile production of a cable outdoor or cooking network.  Maybe they were producing a show on fine cooking outdoors, honing a recipe for poached robin egg served with a delightful trout roe.  However, this seems the least plausible explanation.  The TV chef would most likely have used the egg shell halves as decorative cups for the caviar.  Besides, there was no evidence of ichthyological ovum extraction.

There is also the chance that this was a politically motivated act of unspeakable horror.  Maybe the rebellious mama robin refused to give in to territorial demands of the local starlings.  Maybe she defied the bullying crows and built a nest on their turf.  Maybe the baby robin-to-be was the victim of a border skirmish, or aviary racism.

Maybe mama robin fell in with a bad flock.  This may have been the deadly result of a deal gone wrong, an act if revenge against a wayward robin.

Maybe some national news network should do an weeklong series of reports highlighting the problems plaguing today’s young bird population.  The violent rampages of local starlings.  The rise in tragic accidents involving robin eggs in elm trees.  

All based on nothing more than finding an egg shell in the grass beneath a tree. 

Or maybe… just maybe… maybe the baby bird hatched.  Maybe the world’s newest robin emerged from his prenatal shell, ate worms, grew feathers, spread his wings and flew off into the freedom and purpose God gave him.

Of course, that wouldn’t sell much advertising, would it?