In tepid spring air I stand
under one of my favorite trees,
looking up at chickadees,
five or so, flying from
budding limb to budding limb,

as if playing on a jungle gym.
I can see them clearly now,
cocking their heads, preening
feathers, then flitting almost
like butterflies, the camouflaged
color of late winter branches,

or of my dignified grandfather's
blended hair:  dark brown,
black, silver gray and white.
In summer I'll strain, peering to see
the chickadees in this leafy tree.
They, however, looking down,
will always see me on the ground.