Trees pop like pistols and the snow drifts and whispers
As I wade through the morning, ice growing in my whiskers,
Snow bombs dropping from the trees.
I’m up to my knees with a chain saw on my shoulder
And I don’t know as I’ve ever been colder.
Guess I’m just older.
Cause I’m thinking I might leave that woodlot alone
And go on home
Sit by the woodstove and read.
Ah, but here’s a visit to chase away the lonely,
This antic and cheerful little crowd of chickadees
Come to play by me and make me wonder:
How can it be these tiny creatures survive
Weather that would drive me inside?
Shouldn’t they huddle? Shouldn’t they hide?
Maybe while my toes still stay and my fingers yet flex
I’ll just step on this saw and give it a pull
And if she’ll catch …
Well, I’ll just get to work I guess.
