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Parachuted squirrels glide onto leaf piles and laugh at my heroic efforts
to keep them from taking apart my bird feeders.

With xylophonic fingers they lift the lids and unscrew until the feeders 
give up and fall with a plunk to the ground, giving them fair claim to bounty.

I kite over to the oak tree, irritated that they have once again thwarted
my efforts to discourage and dissuade them from their goal. 

Blemished anxiety rears her ugly head, and I begin to wail upon discovering
my two brand new feeders are broken beyond repair.

Do I abandon my quest or do I Don Quixote myself into reviving and refreshing
my efforts? I do hope to feed the birds some of this feed, right?

Neon light bulbs flash in my head as I sleep, dreaming of the various ways I can
conquer the marauders, without hurting them, but retaining feeder integrity.

The interlopers are hiding in foxtailed clumps of grass as I meander outside.
I attempt to appear casual. I wish I could whistle, but I never could.

The fabric on my jeans is chafing me, which adds to my irritation, however I do
my best to not grimace, act perturbed or otherwise warn the squirrels of my intentions.

A glimmer of turquoise forces me to look down for a second. It is a tiny charm of
a dog that has been missing for over three years. I gratefully pocket her.

Snowflakes begin to gently glide down past my nose as I hang the second bird feeder
back onto the hook. A wonderful sign that I finished with perfect timing.

Naturally, those crafty squirrels again outsmarted me, and had both feeders on the ground
before noon. Their little paws can unscrew faster than any I have ever seen.

I have to laugh, remembering all the times my father used to try to outsmart squirrels.
He finally gave up and put corn on his deck for them. They used to come up and knock
when they were out, which amused him greatly as he was on the other side of the glass
slider, grinning like a cat.
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