When I started to clear my herb garden to make room for a couple of sage plants, I almost jumped out of my skin: A clutch of eggs lay in a bird-made bowl under the overhang of rosemary and chickweed.
But no mama, in this case, a mallard. I found her absence odd, but she always returned.
When she went broody and was no longer leaving, I offered her some food. She hissed.