A Poem - First Draft

Well, at least it hasn't been like three months since my last post. This is a first draft; don't be too critical. This poem originated out of an imaging exercise:

Hunger steers them to the back yard
Like miners elated over their gold, more hear the call and come.
A dozen, at least, sometimes fifty and then I lose count
Left over meals, their voices sing in delight of their find
An orderly parade of black hopping bandits.

Do they dare attempt the seed guarded by the grey squirrel?
The survival dance begins, as squirrel straightens and lunges forward
Black wings rise into the air and back down again
Another attempt, this one from behind,
the seed travels down the gullet as the victor takes to the air.

The rooftops and trees brim over with life
A scene from Poe, or Hitchcock
They continue to cawl for their roost
The yard is busier than O’hare
Take offs and landings, but no need for air control

As the feast draws to its end the landings become fewer
Footprints in the snow, evidence that there was an army
The talon tracks impressing the chaos
The observation seeing the order
A community, working toward one end.