The Professor

He’s out there every morning surveying the feeder. Sitting on his haunches he peers up towards seeds that he cannot seem to reach no matter how many times he scales the baffles. 

I think he’s made of stardust, a magician in disguise.

I watch him ruminate, feeling his thoughts penetrating my own. “There must be a way.” This wily character has bulbous eyes popping out of his scruffy gray head. Curiously, his ears are tipped in white though the rest of his coat is sable. Suddenly a flash – he streaks across the grass, ascends the maple, peers around briefly, and then rushes up the Mother Tree for a different view. He suffers from ADD. Too far to jump. Too high to drop. I can feel his frustration as he sprints towards the feeder, noses the ground and finds one stray seed. Sitting back on his haunches he spies the cardinal feeding just over his head. He scents the ground again. “There must be one more.” Coming up empty, he can’t quite believe it. 

Now he assumes the Professor’s position, leaning back on his haunches, almost rocking, with small hands appealingly clasped in front of him like a prayer. He just sits there with a glazed expression. A meditating Buddha. Well not quite; he’s calculating his next move. 

Sighing, I accept the fact that this guy is smarter than me, and eventually he’ll find a way!

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