A family of scrub jays lives in the dead tree outside my window. It’s an excellent location for avoiding nosy neighbors, even cats, as the entrance lies on the underside of a formerly living limb.
There are three of them, two females and a male. Each has a cobalt back offset by a white chest the Venus de Milo itself envies. They prefer to schedule their arguments early, before the sun peeks over the distant mountains. The fog descends through the trees and muffles the steady crashing of the ocean waves.
The male jabs first, splintering the silence. The females chatter their response in forceful tandem. And so it goes.
Once the finicky male has had his say, he flits off imperiously in any direction but that of the females. One at a time, the females zip the other way to find their breakfasts.
No point in dining with the likes of him, I suppose.
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