A white-shell egg, the size of tiny pea
lay warm beneath a feathered tummy fluff
in nest of hair and twine on limb of tree
that swayed when April’s wind blew gentle puff.
The hut was small as walnut shell–just right
to house the hummingbird in early spring.
When mama bird was left both day and night,
on little nest, she taught her babe to sing.
And now, the young bird’s grown and seems content
to wing above the trees and creeks and rocks.
Although he wonders where his papa went,
he thrives on nectar from pink four o’clocks.
He never frets but sings his song in trills
that echo like a love song from the hills.
Copyright, 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols