Did some indulgent, rodent grandparent,
with patience, show the way
to race across the snow and climb the pole
and make the jump and hang there upside down,
and grasp one black shell (while the feeder spins around)
and split and spit the shell to drop below
as he consumes or stores the seed and stares at me?
Or is it not a patient thing at all
but only some strong, urgent force takes hold
and makes the young one bold enough to face
in foolish confidence
whatever risk might lie ahead
in the space between
his greed and quaking fear?
And why do I, on my side the glass,
wonder whether I should be afraid?