Shrewd little hunter of woods all gray,

Whom I meet on my walk of a winter day,

You’re busy inspecting each cranny and hole

In the ragged bark of yon hickory hole;

You intent on your task, and I on the law

Of your wonderful head and gymnastic claw!

The woodpecker well may despair of this feat—

Only the fly with you can compete!

So much is clear; but I fain would know

How you can so reckless and fearless go,

Head upward, head downward, all one to you,

Zenith and nadir the same to your view?

—Edith Thomas.