After much debate between the husband and I (should we open the door to the outside and let them hop out? Will that ultimately kill them because they cannot fly very well yet? Do I really care? How am I going to get all of this bird shit cleaned up off of the concrete floor in there?), the birds have flown the nest, so to speak. But not before leaving me the following: Two almost-heart-attacks, massive amounts of poop all over the floor, an ever-increasing fear that we will all catch the bird flu from going in that room to get something out of the fridge, and one dead baby bird sitting right by my water heater. They would squawk and flap their tiny wings in a panic-filled pseudo flight attempt, but since they were just babies and couldn't fly very well, they would inevitably end up crashing into a cinder block wall, or the floor, or the windows. Even the mother bird, who would perch six inches from the hole out to the free world, would chirp and sing, seemingly saying, "God you guys are stupid. The way out is right here. HERE! Look! See this patch of sunlight coming through this massive hole in the wall? Fly HERE, not into the walls, morons." And apparently they found their way out, because Birdfest 2010 is over. I feel like I should have a t-shirt made that says I Survived The Birds and All I Got Was A Crippling Fear Of Anything With Wings.
Look at them, staring back at me with their scary, shiny eyes. I think I could hear them planning to peck my eyes out as I took this picture with my phone.