The Junco

Winter is still far off, today this is just my warm up.

The Junco

The Junco, he’s a ball of fat
  In feathers made of soot
His belly matches, white and chill,
  The snow under his foot

You never see him all the year,
  He never stops here by,
Until mid-Winter blizzards blow
  And snow is piling high

Then at your birdseeed he will peck,
  And squeak unmelodious songs
No others birds will come with him,
  To them he’s just all wrong

The Snowbird is his other name
  For that is when he shows,
Yet where is he the hot green year?
  I wonder where he goes…

To Iceland or the Arctic North,
  Where whither has he dwelt?
This frosty fellow sure is queer, 
 I hope he doesn’t melt…