From my upstairs window
I see a raggedy grandfather crow
with two white streaks in his tail feathers.
He’s on my neighbor’s roof
peering into the tin gutter,
packed with the litter of dried leaves and tiny twigs,
where I know a diligent squirrel,
who lives in the oak tree
a short leap from the house,
has socked away an acorn for just such a cold morning
as this.

A Stellar’s jay–black cap, blue coat–
is dancing on the steep slope of shingles,
angling for a try at the buried treasure,
but the crow shoos him away with quick starts
whenever he gets too close.
And now the crow tosses junk out of the gutter,
like a robber in the night
tearing through cupboards and drawers,
pulling out whatever and tossing it anywhere,
until he finds the acorn and absconds.

Ten minutes later the squirrel
comes hopping along
eager for breakfast.

She looks in the gutter.
Her eyes widen.
Her little paws scramble frantically.
Then she sits up,
considers for a moment,
turns,
and carries her broken expectations away with her.

I love crows,
I love jays,
I love squirrels,
and this is not a nice world.