Some pursue happiness, others create it. ~Author unknown
I caught a bird, a pretty thing:
White of belly, black of wing.
Of course, my mama had a fit;
Didn’t concern her, not one bit.
I snagged him as he flew through the air.
Why not, I thought? He was right there.
And Mama has taught me how to catch.
A flying object is an easy snatch!
This bird felt different from my other toys:
Lots of feathers, not much noise.
But Mama wasn’t playing with us;
She was inside, making a fuss.
She saw that bird hanging from my mouth.
The next thing I knew, the door to the south
Opened with a crash and there she stood —
Mad as a hornet and that wasn’t good.
Outside she flew; a shovel she’d brought.
Is this some kind of new game, I thought?
But no! She sped without a word
Toward my prize, my little bird.
She scooped him up and shouted “No!”
And toward the fence she decided to go.
Hoisted that shovel and tossed him away.
Oh little bird, come back and play!
Note: Mama says this poetic form is in rhyming couplets. I Monkey have no clue!
Musings by an ND Domer's Mom 