The rabbit turns, sharp, and sniffs the air.
Not much gets past this troubled Hare.
Her eyes grow wide, her whiskers twitch.
Bold brown against green grass so rich.
When ears and eyes turn to the sky,
she catches Songbird’s lullaby,
descending down from pale gray sky- -
Miss Hare alerts, and turns to rush
into her soft, concealing brush.

The Songbird, puzzled, takes a pause,
then uses talons, sharp as claws
to grasp a branch in Willow Tree
and then continues merrily.
Displaying simple, rhythmic call,
she croons the tune of dying fall.
Then inspiration makes her sing
for hours, of flowers, in the spring.

And whis’pring softly, (as you see)
the hushed replies of Willow Tree.
She says, so low, that she enjoys
the soulful lulls of Songbird’s noise.
The Songbird sighs, and starts to rise.
She utters out her final cries.
How lovely to be recognized
by Willow, so serene and wise.

And watching as the Willow sways,
the Squirrel prepares for harder days.
Such careful planning does he make,
and never one risk does he take.
And darting up and darting down,
He has no time to smile or frown.
He thinks this winter he’ll be fat.
But then he runs into a Cat.


Cat raises an eyebrow, saucy and sure.
She’s caught her prey, like this before.
She gives her tail a sudden flick,
and gives her grin an extra lick.
Arched back, cruel Cat prepares for leaps,
but something her attention keeps.
For Songbird’s back in sky, so gray,
And Squirrel, so grateful, bounds away.

Miss Hare looks out beyond the leaves.
She sees the scene and then she heaves
a sigh, and, silent, makes a list
of all the fun things that she missed.
“How much goes by”, she cries, still hushed,
“When you’ve been hiding in the brush!”