They race up and down the body of the small, dead orange tree.

Confused and baffled that the bird feeder, which hung from one of the barren branches only yesterday, is no longer where they remember it being.

The pile of seed they spilled still lays at the bottom of the tree, testimony that they are at the right location.

And yet…..

And yet….

And yet….

The feeder seems to have moved.
Seems to have been relocated. Seems almost accessible, yet remains elusively just out of reach.

They are unable to climb the metal pole from which it now hangs.
Unable to reach it from either the fence or the tree despite their abilities in gymnastics and contortion.
Attempts to jump to it finds them falling to the ground; the distance between where they are and where they want to be proving a gap too big to bridge.

There is a moment where they seem to be collaborating; seem to be working together.

Huddled close, staring in the same direction, it seems they are coming up with a plan.

And then….

the chatter turns hostile, sends them both scrambling to the earth below.

Sends them provoked and posturing to opposing sides of the seed perimeter.

Content it seems to give up on their common goal.

Satisfied instead to squabble over scraps.