‘Twas a scorchingly hot mid-summer’s day.
But being far too beautiful to remain inside,
my feet carried me off, and somewhat astray,
into a tall forest to avoid my being fried,
between me and ‘ole Sol a woodsy divide.
I strolled along in relative coolness of the forest green,
but came too soon, I thought, to a wide open clearing.
With the blazing sun overhead and only sky in between,
I froze solid in my tracks from the sound I was hearing,
rubbed my eyes in disbelief at what they saw appearing.
Now I’m really not all that crazy so far as I know,
but right there in front of me, with a backdrop of clear blue,
was what anyone at all would call a songbirds show.
A multi-colored feathered quartet hitting every note on cue,
then fluttering away, returning soon with a melody anew.
They didn’t change costumes but all looked attractive,
the Redpoll lead in red, Warbler tenor more yellow than not.
The Blue Jay’s bass was so booming it was nearly proactive,
and the mostly brown Wren chirped in baritone right on spot,
all together chirruping barbershop music I had almost forgot.
I enjoyed the show as long as I could, sang along when able,
until at last my duties to do told me it was time to go.
I left worried my mind could possibly be a bit unstable,
after a check of pockets found no kernels of corn to bestow.
I’ll reward them by buying their CD, if not too much dough.
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