In From the Cold

BY HANNAH POWELL

That poor little chickadee

Hops on the hill

None too happy

On the pristine snow mound

Three feet high

King of birdseed

Fat as can be

Yet not glad to be king at all

His glory dashed

By one small thing

He’s plucked to the bone

And very cold

Shivering

Little bird knees knock together

I think he shouts

“Please”

Is there room in the warmth for one more?

A mug of hot cocoa

A tiny wool sweater

Shows the most love

For this kind of small guest

He who in fact

Will bound in when invited

And shall be well mannered

And won’t drop crumbs

On the floor

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