What if the finches drop straight down through the branches like perky, agile acrobats? Such cat burglars. What if that duet of invasive squirrels stop when they spot me watching them trying to move in, and run back into their hiding place behind the folding screen on the porch where my daughter’s photograph is plastered larger than life and she’s wearing the christening gown that we all wore. Five generations of holy water. What if the sound in the night of a stainless steel serving tray tumbling to the cement wakes us? We will know that the rascals are at it again tipping to raid the seed bin, and the birds will need to make more noise to hold on to their sky climbing stick country. The tree’s arms scratching the roof for as long as I can remember. My daughter frightened by the sound in her bedroom as the natural movement carves the dark.