Last year, someone secretly planted flowers in my window boxes. I still don?t know if it was an overachieving gardener, someone who couldn?t stand the sight of the pathetic emptiness, or someone making a fairly grand poetic or romantic gesture, but I loved both the secret and the blooms. My lack of gardening ability and native slothfulness, combined with changing seasons, proved fatal to the floral gifts. It was time for Spring cleaning and replanting. As I approached the remains of the garden, a bird swooped in and pulled off some twigs. My garden was being reborn as a nest.