Constant chatter creates a din,
his winter store, in haste, he brings,
from branch to limb, as on a whim,
to his nest hidden in the limbs.
Brightly hued leaves rival bird wings,
playing games of tag with the wind.
As this days light begins to dim,
comes an October frost that clings
from branch to limb, as on a whim.
He pauses, sitting on the rim
to behold his stores fit for kings.
Playing games of tag with the wind,
Nature doesn't seem to bother him,
when winters' icy-chilled air clings,
From branch to limb, as on a whim
playing games of tag with the wind.
İM. Pennington
