Progress In The Maple Tree. Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

A little house, I made with care,
For feathered friends to live in there.
High in the maple, strong and tall,
I nailed it fast, then left it all.

Weeks went by, then back I came,
The birdhouse looked, somehow, not the same.
The little hole, once neat and small,
Was bigger now, so wide and tall.

No chirps, no wings, no birds in sight,
Just empty space, and fading light.
Then rustling sounds, a scratch, a creep,
A tiny claw, disturbed my sleep.

A furry face, a whiskered nose,
A squirrel popped out, from head to toes.
My birdhouse dream, a twist so sly,
Now a squirrel's home, beneath the sky.