I watch him climb the porch-roof post,
looping himself around the beam,
then stretch to slide his furry carcass down
and spread his belly across the feeder lid,
comfortably placed to push feed from
the self-refilling bird shelves —
but those pictures are too dark to read.
All done, the feeder emptied,
he climbs back up,
wraps up around the beam,
walks across, then slides down the post
to the hand rail,
where at least some of the scooped-out
birdfeed piled up on a dry flat dining surface.
He settles in to enjoy the fruits
of a well-thought out
and well-executed plan,
until the backdoor latch,
which sounds a little like a rifle bolt
prompts him to bolt.
By morning, though, the rail was licked clean.
I assume despite his fright
he returned and finished dinner.
