The mouse tunnels under the snow have glazed floors and walls from five solid months of winter. Halibut's domain is a cold, dark cave, but enough is enough. Sparrows are dropping like icicles.
Only the magpie prospers. The other day I saw a smug one in the spruce tree. I thought he had a twig in his loathsome bill. Building, I thought, for a fresh shipment of tender nestlings.
Then I saw the dangling legs, the tail of a chickadee.
You know the End Days are near when fish fly in the air, carts pull horses, and the prey gets uppity.