My father had a way with birds -
by Linda Ori
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
Lights 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.'