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29 Brush Rustler In his four-piece suit—pinstriped vest, polka dot tie, polka dot shirt, wide-striped jacket— he puffs himself up like Marlon Brando making an offer you can’t refuse. He makes a racket in the brush and brambles, he dares you to stare him down. He’s looking for what he can steal: a worm from a smaller bird, seeds stashed by the chipmunk. When he’s not happy, he rat-a-tat-tats like Bonnie and Clyde breaking out of the bank, guns blazing. Other birds give him a wide berth, the best perch at the feeder, the oh-so-many-sticksit -took-to-make the just-finished nest. Flamboyant as Capone, he wants headlines, wants to be seen as one smart cookie, wants to run the only game in town. He’s a poacher, a moocher, a preacher of bad news. He’ll bullet his way toward the oriole clinging to the suet cage, the goldfinch picking at thistle. He’ll scare beauty right out of the air. He’s got the yellow eyes of the daisies for his Pinkerton spies, he’s got a pack of grackles under his wing. ...

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