The Chickadee

My father had a way with birds -
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:
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
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.'

by Linda Ori

Comments (3)

A moving recounting with a terrifically judged ending Linda. It would have been easy to have made a mess of this one, but you pulled it off brilliantly! Sometimes the simplest tales have the greatest power - as here. You do it so well. xxx jim
Linda, One word ... beautiful! B.V.A.
I wasn't sure whether to think, Linda's away with the birds tonight, or the birds have a way through Linda. Danny