The location has never resulted in a successful production of a fully fledged bird. The yearly tradition should have died on the first generation of birds. But somehow, it persists.
So, we interfere. We throw shoes at the location. We seed it with pointy things. We yell and scream at the birds. Go away! Your children will die!
All to no avail. Year after year.
Today, the floor near the spot is littered with fallen attempts at nest making. The birds are back. What could I do, but smile? Ah, l'amour.