“It’s a sin to kill a Mockingbird.” But what if . . .

“It’s a sin to kill a Mockingbird.” But what if . . .

What if you raze its nest?

Before calling the Audubon Society, hear me out.

Last spring, I watched a pair of Mockingbirds raise a nest full of babies and launch them into the world.

Rapturous.

Take this tweet from April 2016:

My 3 baby mockingbirds. Harper, Atticus and Boo scream constantly for food. Parents workin their tail feathers off. pic.twitter.com/cYuDYLwdmP

— Jamie Miles (@SouthMainMuse) April 19, 2016

Watching the last bit, you understand why I wasn’t videoing very close. Mommy or Daddy Mocker came out to kick my interloping tail feathers.

A few weeks after the Mocker fam moved out, I cut down the smilax vine so it would grow back nice and green. Healthy looking. I do this every few years. Only this time when I pulled the brown and crispy vine off the metal frame, the Mocker nest tumbled down too. I considered saving it, but it crumbled in my hands. It had served its purpose.

Or so this bird brain assumed.

After many trips dragging the brown vine to the curb, I sat on the porch surveying the clean, albeit rusty, metal screen. While inspecting scratches my arms and legs received from the thorny vine — low-and-behold —  a mockingbird dived over me and perched on top of the metal frame.

“Cack, cack, cack.” Staccato notes erupted from the Mocker as if he spied our cats on the prowl. Then its mate lighted and another hell-and-damn-fire scolding ensued.

Dear God, I tore down their home.

The pair took flight and a much smaller colorful bird — one I’d never seen before or since — landed on the porch railing and started screeching. Screaming. A few moments later, it lighted on the handlebars of a nearby bike — and screamed again.

BEWARE! ON GUARD! Large Destructress wieldeth clippers and hacketh down all our dwellings. Hear ye, hear ye, the end is nigh!

I hung my head and tore at my breast plate. For shame, for shame. After a little googling, I learned mockingbirds use the same next for as many as three clutches each year.

Rat farts upon me!!!

For 12 months every time I saw a mockingbird perched on a wire, a tree, a post — I conjured up my well-honed bird mental telepathy sending I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.

Their stink eye seared into my heart. I deserved every lash, every rip their glares inflicted.

To compound my guilt, thanks to drought and an overzealous yard crew, the smilax screen never grew back.

Until a month or so ago, when the rains started.

The minute a clump of smilax big enough to hold a nest formed,

so did a nest.

God bless ’em.

The Mockers back in the hood.

My husband’s Facebook post:

God is good. But,

My husband got one thing wrong.

Harper, Atticus, Boo and Calpurnia.

They’ve got four eggs not three.

I’m never hacking the smilax down again.

Well, not for a couple of years.