Hills bedecked in powdered rain.
Will we see green trees again?
Chilly mist drifts overhead,
Cools the hibernator’s bed.
Yet the valley down below,
Barely shows a hint of snow,
Filbert trees are flowering,
Wimpy folks still cowering.
Filbert flowers dangle plain,
Golden curtain, golden mane.
Hiding hummers, sheltered perch,
Safe from predators who search.
In the open on this twig,
In the sun I dance a jig,
Happy to be warm out here,
Catching rays of light so dear.
In the shade, my throat is brown,
Wait until I turn around,
I’m like lady hot pants pink,
Pretty special, don’t you think?
Bright pink plumage, yes that’s me,
Now I’m quite a catch, you see.
Don’t believe me? Yes, it’s true,
Sure as I can look at you.