Hummingbird King of the Crop

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

English: A Female Vervain Hummingbird sitting ...
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

Homeless in Spring

Bird Babies
The cardinal’s feathers contrasted
sharply with the hedge bush;
he flitted noisily nearby
until the buzzing hushed.

In disarray, the bush fell
to the daisy-dotted ground–
a hand reached to gather the limbs,
then stopped at a soft cheeping sound.

A nest of twigs and twine–
home of featherless bird babies–
once secure on the fork of the limbs,
now lay scattered in the daisies.

The cheep-cheep of the birdies
could no longer be denied;
the big man picked them up
and with no one looking, cried.

Published in Ozarks Mountaineer,
The Arkansas Democrat Magazine,
and Poems by Poets’ Roundtable
of Arkansas 

cCopyright, 2012 Freeda Baker Nichols