Upon a branch of modest size sat one bold bird with shifty eyes, He puffed his chest, declared, "Behold, this tree is mine, both branch and bole." He tapped the bark with rhythmic flair, a drummer with absolutely zero care. Each knock proclaimed, "I run this place. Respect the stash. Respect my space." His acorns? Countless. Hidden well. A hoarder's dream, a squirrel's pure hell. He guards them all with warriors pride, a tiny landlord with nuts inside. And if you pass beneath his throne, he'll glare as if to say, "My zone." For on that branch, in sunlight slick, he rules the woods with every click.
