I think I killed a baby bird.
It was an accident (of course) that happened when I dumped about a gallon of water in the spider plant on my porch. I forget to water it for days and then I think I can make up for my neglect by giving it LOTS of water. Lucky for me, spider plants are forgiving. I haven't killed the plant -- yet.
When the water splashed in two tiny birdies popped up shaking their feathers and chirping wildly as if to say "whatsamattayou! trying to kill us or what?" One of them popped out of the plant and landed on the floor of the porch. It looked like it had learned to fly a little bit (I'm rationalizing aren't I?) so I didn't try to rescue it. It hopped around the porch a little (I'm sure it was in shock) and I went back inside.
The next morning the bird wasn't on the porch anymore. In my preferred version of the end of this story, the birdie flew back up into the nest to join her sibling. On the other hand, it could have been eaten by that wild neighbor cat. Or starved to death.
Or this whole incident could be a metaphor for raising teenagers who will soon be washed out of their nest -- to fly, starve or to be eaten. Either way, I'm to blame.