I wish I could.
I cannot tell you about the little brown bird with the few flecks of white on his wing, the bird that settled here, weary of flight, as the weather hinted of warmer days coming, to build this nest, woven by beak and foot, lined with the feathers that had kept him warm not days before.
I cannot tell you how this small bird preened and strutted until the just right paramour settled to his side, inspected his handiwork in the nest, and tweeted an I Do, or at least an I Will for the season.
I cannot tell you of their terror as the nest on it's limb heaved and swayed in the howling winds of one storm after another, some in the darkness of a night that seemed without end, some in the gray and green of an afternoon blow that irreparably altered the lives of man and beast just a short flight across the way.
I cannot tell you of the shells that opened and the one that didn't, or how the both were pushed over the stemmy nest's edge, in each their time, to flutter and fall to the ground below where bug and worm awaited a free meal.
I cannot tell you of the endless stream of bugs and worms delivered from beak to gaping maw as hatchlings grew to fledglings until finally, the one morning, with feathers grown and untested, the two pushed the three over the side, and the five fluttered apart to meet no more.