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i crouch and wipe the rusted tendrils of arborvitae from the turtle dish with a sweep of hand. eight a.m. and the surrounding lawns are empty, the changing neighbourhood trees devoid of birdsong.
i take a hearty scoop of shelled peanuts from the bag and sprinkle the weightless dumbbells in the saucer. i repeat with the mixed nuts; teardrops of almonds and teetotums of hazels, supremes of brazils and blimps of pecans fall from my fingers.
wings ignite with wind before i even reach the door; blue jays perch and peck a perfect morsel suitable for flight, dramatically open capes of azure and white in a rush to nearby branches. a chickaree descends a slender trunk, settles by a pumpkin stem, then steals a nut and races upwards to stash again and again. a thicker tree squirrel saunters over and the jays sway on weak shoots of dormant hibiscus, deferring. the squirrel alternates between saving and spending. and this food-gathering frenzy lasts for a few minutes, like children descending on sweets handed out by strangers simply for showing up on their doorstep.
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