Crash! Thump! followed by the chattering

of what I can only imagine are rodent curses 

and the desperate scrambling of tiny claws: 

this has become the soundtrack to my days. 

Those seeds must taste real good. 

Morning comes, the sky a bouquet of roses, 

periwinkles, delphiniums, and my dad 

is outside, boots denting the fresh snow 

and steamy breath weaving through his 

scarf. His mittens turn white with the snow

as he lugs the bird feeder further away from 

any squirrel-assisting branches: to no avail. 

They can still make the jump. 

Those seeds must taste real good. 

My dad’s dreams are of the same landscape, 

yet brightly colored birds orchestrating our

breakfast instead of clumsy yet acrobatic 

squirrels. They have plenty of food! Yet I’m 

not sure that they do, looking at the snow. 

Those seeds must taste real good. 

The morning light is bright, one of those

days in winter where sunglasses are vital. 

The bird feeder doesn’t have a shadow—

except when the squirrel comes flying 

out of nowhere, sending it rocking and seeds

tumbling on the ground. The shadow shakes, 

like a puppet show on a backdrop of white 

snow. I’m hungry, I’m adorable, the squirrel 

says. Birds? What birds? Stop moving it, 

can’t you see that I’m smarter than you? 

Those seeds must taste real good. 

The birds visit the feeder increasingly 

less. We get woodpeckers, chickadees 

mostly. I guess they are the ones that aren’t

afraid of the daily visits of the flying squirrel 

circus. The cardinals peck at the seeds that 

the squirrels leave behind in their wake. 

Those seeds must taste real good. 

Why do you try to get seeds from the bird feeder

when there’s seeds on the ground that the birds

drop? I ask. I imagine it’s silky fur and thick 

feathery tail against my palm. It pokes me 

with its cold and wet button nose. Go big

or go home, it says. It’s a battle. I’m going to

win. The seeds on the bird feeder taste better, 

anyways. A pale pink tongue emerges

from its mouth and wets its lips. 

Those seeds taste real good. 

Tomorrow my dad will go to the 

store, by a baffle to puzzle the squirrels, 

stop the feeder post climbing game 

they play. He’ll add some seeds—

sprinkles on the white snowy icing— 

to keep them happy. They’ll visit, but 

not as much. They’ll still climb the tree

and ponder the jump. Someday they’ll 

attempt it. But today I can enjoy the fun. 

Those seeds must taste real good.