I thought it was a bird that chirped
Throughout the live-long day.
I heard him in the morning, noon
And evening chirp away.
He chirped on Sunday...Monday, bright.
He chirped on Tuesday too.
He chirped on Wednesday. Then I heard
Him chirp on Thursday too.
Who was this noisy little bird
That chirped on Friday morn.
And there he was again the next!
You'd think his voice all worn.
I searched the many tree tops
That reached about the eaves.
All I saw were gnarled limbs
And crispy, green new leaves.
Then I saw him, not a bird,
Behind a garden stone.
It was a chipmunk vocalist.
The noise was his alone.
Chipmunks sing...who would've thought?
The sound can be obnoxious.
Sometimes I want the fellow gone.
At the very least unconscious.