The Tiny Thief

Like fluffy bits of cotton floating lazily, the thick snowflakes gently cuddle every crevice of the deck in a soft whiteness. As I am drawn to the tall window, the outline of my sweater silhouetted by the crisp coolness of the outside light, my breath catches in my throat at the sight of a tiny sparrow perched on the swinging birdfeeder. Entranced, I watch with an amused smile. The feeder is intended for the larger and more ostentatious cardinals, but they are too busy chasing one another around the trees to notice their stolen breakfast. The sparrow pecks nervously at the seed, tensely awaiting the imminent bombardment. He grabs a minuscule bite, then peers over his shoulder to check for danger. He repeats this process several times as I smile at him with rapt attention, an unseen guardian, my face inches from the chilled glass and frosting it slightly with my breath. Normally, I would dart for my camera, but something about his secrecy stops me. Every bird who stops at the feeder pays the toll of documentation except this one. The way he jumps from his perch as the cardinals swoop past in their game of tag, then hops back when the coast is clear is heartbreaking and charming all at the same time. And so I let the tiny thief have his breakfast in peace, maintaining a quiet vigil at the window, unseen by the scavenger; and when he has pecked his fill of the seeds, after one last nervous glance at the treeline, he darts from the perch, his daring venture a success.