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?