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Before the sun is fully up
Beside the window with my cup
I watch them come on silent wings
Those wild, beautiful, little things.
Each day they visit more and more
The feeder by my cabin door

Small clans of tiny Chickadees
Fluttering in by twos and threes
Rush to the feeder, then they search
Pecking and flitting perch to perch.
Moving too quickly to decide,
Their actions have me mystified.

A Chickadee does nothing straight,
He'll make a dash, then hesitate,
It's funny how his body works
In little pauses, little jerks.
He pecks, and suddenly departs
His flight is full of stops and starts.

He's up, he's down, then zig and zag
Like bird and breeze are playing tag.
Just as quick, on a sudden whim,
(Who can say what comes over him)
He'll stop - it's time to sit and sing.
This wild, whimsical, little thing.

He swoops up over hills of air
And turns sharp corners that aren't there,
So quick to move, then quickly pause
I think he lives like this because
That's the way he's put together,
A speck of life, of flesh and feather.

Yet, through the raging winter storm
With nothing much to keep him warm,
Beneath a wing, his head will rest
The fire in that small wild breast
Defies the frost the cold night brings
And with the dawn, he wakes and sings.

From tales and legends, I would guess, 
We've filled a fabled wilderness
With sounds of nature in the raw
As brutes do battle tooth and claw
In some harsh land of ice and snow
Where most of us don't care to go.

But the wild call that beckons me
Is a soft sweet song, chickadee-dee-dee.

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