[Lady Jag]

The Chickadee

My father had a way with birds - He would listen to their songs, And he knew them well. There was a little chickadee That always perched on the bench On the back porch; My father would put seed in his hand, Hold it up and call: CHICKADEE - DEE - DEE He did this several times a day And the little bird would look But never ventured close. One day, as dad was holding out his hand The chickadee edged closer and closer And finally lit on my father's hand And began to eat the seeds. From then on, when dad would call CHICKADEE -DEE -DEE The little bird would swoop down And land on his hand. My father has passed away since then, But often a little chickadee Sits in the pinetree outside my window And peers through the glass As if to say 'hello! ' And I always say, 'Hi Daddy, sing me a song.' Linda Ori

[Soaring Feather]

Oh, Lady this is gorgeous and just tugs at the heart.




I love these little birds
velvet black, capped heads
unafraid of man- enough to
venture into a human palm
for a taste of seeds.

The winged delight of the skies
tame and tiny, with the heart of love
as large as a lions.