Photo courtesy of www.birds,deansfamily.com
The Sun is away on vacation.
So Mother Nature rests, tired of giving birth;
While worms enjoy a seasonal reprieve
Beneath the ice-bound earth.
Day from night we can only discern
By degrees of grey to black,
And the chill that pervades the darkest part
Brings a fear our bones will crack.
Growing weak from constant hunger,
Our half-hearted chorus at dawn
Is little more than a hoarse whisper
As another day is born.
Picking among the roots of plants
That are deep in hibernation,
The most fortunate ones of us may find
A morsel to ward off starvation.
But there simply isn't enough to go round:
Neither fly nor cricket in sight.
Our empty tummies churn and ache.
For a snail, to the death we'd fight.
Thin and desperate we turn to man,
Braving his cats and dogs;
For it's chirped there's bread and seed galore
On his table of pinewood logs.
It's true! We see it before our eyes,
Surely this must be a trap?
But the need for this life-saving easy meal
Overrides all fear of mishap.
We snatch and gobble, our eyes darting back
And forth should a predator spring.
Now satiated and fully revived,
We gratefully take wing.