It's snowing outside my window, those big, fluffy, lake-affect flakes that make snow beautiful. They flutter and float on a meandering path to the ground, to melt away on the salty pavement or find brotherhood in the landscaping, atop cars and roofs.
In the snow outside my window there are two hundred robins pecking through the grass. What food is there for 200 robins in that small knoll of frozen ground?
Then by some unknown internal cue, all two hundred at once take flight.