I spied a tufted titmouse in a tree,
Against the backdrop of a winter grey;
He blended in so near, so perfectly,
Except the splash of peach—a bright nosegay.
He took no heed of frost nor frozen blight
As he flit lightly, branch to crooked branch.
And as he moved he kept me in his sight,
Each move I made, he tossed a furtive glance.
I said, “Sweet titmouse where will you now go,
A blizzard’s near—or so the skies appear?
All this, all life soon girded up with snow,
And you but feathered frail—of this I fear.”
He soldiered on, not heeding my behest—
In solemn grey with orange emblazoned chest.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.