This was told to me, and I imagine it:
Birds, three or four different sorts -- sparrows with grackles with starlings -- in the winter twist of branches. The tree is a small locust, growing up through its brick ring in the sidewalk, in civilized hoopskirt of wrought iron. This is how you know it's Des Moines. Anyway, the birds, unusually three or four kinds together, are making a racket and chatter, scolding as if they had nests to protect, which of course they don't. In the upper branches there is a hawk, her cloak hung straight, powerfully waiting.
Someone's nerve will break. But before that, waiting.
