Gone so sudden

We have a pair of birdhouses in the backyard, visible from our kitchen window. A pair of wrens have taken up housekeeping in one of them, which hangs from a shepherd's crook pole. They're an interesting couple; in building the nest they blocked the entrance hole, so they decided to slip in under the hinged roof, which their sticks and stuff had propped up. I peeked in the other day, under the watchful eye and vocal protests of the male, and saw at least two tiny eggs, no doubt there are more. They may have hatched by now, since the mother has begun coming and going with some reqularity; Dad mostly sits on the pole, or a nearby tree, and sings. And casts a beady, watchful, eye on me whenever I step into the backyard. I said we have a pair of houses, but I somewhat misspoke. We had a pair. The second one, a square one set on an old clothes-line pole, was ultimately occupied by a pair of sparrows, after some dispute with a pair of chickadees who had put down the initial deposit -- and the initial lining for a nest. Sparrows are the plebians of the bird world, numerous and often annoying, and I know people sometimes remove their nests in hopes that more respectable folk, like the chickadees or the wrens, will settle in. But I let them stay. And it should be noted that, unlike the wrens next door, the sparrows at least had the decency to use their front door. I'd seen a few eggs in there too. Birdville seemed a contented place, tranquil in a busy sort of way. Until two mornings ago. That was when, making coffee, I half-glanced into the paling gray of the morning. Something didn't look right. As things came into focus I saw that the square birdhouse lay on the ground, on its side, nails jutting from its bottom wehre it had been torn from its perch, the hinged top half-open, and the nest materials strewn around, sticks, matted dried grass, a couple scraps of wrapper, even a crow feather, more material than seemed reasonable to have been shoved into the house. Obviously a raccoon had been busy in the darkness, when the mother couldn't fly and the eggs were fair game. I wasn't irritated or sad. Nature is nature. At most I felt a tang of disappointment; I hadn't known them well, but I'd watched them settle in. Like losing a neighbor you waved to, maybe knew by name, but had never visited. I had just about filed the incident away, when suddenly the male sparrow flew into view. He circled the pole where the house had been, and landed on the ground next to the jumbled nest and broken house. He hopped around a bit, poking at stuff, then seemed to consider things with his cocked and beady eye. He jumped back into the air, and flew up to where the house had been, pausing to perch briefly on the platform. He darted over to the wren house, to be met by an irritated Mr. Wren. The two flashed around in tight circles, then the sparrow took off across the yard, and was gone. And this time I did feel something deep, profound and sad. I don't claim to speak for animals, much less talk to them, but I've been around them enough to know they have some degree of self. It was obvious watching the male sparrow that he was surprised, and confused. As well he should have been. Whether he had a sense of loss, or anger, or fear, I don't know. But he'd put energy into that house, and it --the nest, his mate, the eggs -- and knew something he valued had been ripped from his life. I don't know what he thought as he headed out, but I know he was suddenly cast into a future different than he had expected. His dreams, however rudimentary they may have been, were gone, as was the world he'd been building. As has, or someday will, happen to us all.