On the highest twig of a slender birch,
A mistle thrush suns his speckled breast;
He guards his larder copse with keen-eyed search,
And chases off intruders with protest.

He knows the winter days are short and cold,
And food is scarce and hard to come by;
He savors every scarlet berry bold,
And other wild sorbs that catch his eye.

He sings a song of triumph and of joy,
A melody that fills the frosty air;
He does not mind the snow or wind annoy,
He feels the warmth of sun upon his hair.

He is the king of all he sees around,
He is the master of his birch tree mound.

Poems and images Bing