In the quiet woods where shadows fall, A woodpecker's tale begins to call, To the task at hand with patient care, Finding a tree that stands tall and fair.
The deadwood trunk, a hollowed prize, Beneath the gaze of autumn skies, Becomes the canvas, rough and true, For a winter's feast in every hue.
With careful beak and measured pace, The woodpecker starts to carve its place, Each hole a cradle, snug and tight, Neither too large nor small in height.
Too wide, the thieves would have their way, Too small, the bounty would decay, So, in between, with master’s hand, The woodpecker crafts a storage grand.
Summer's end, the work complete, The ripened acorns, smooth and sweet, Are tucked within the wooden walls, In secret chambers, nature’s halls.
Fifty thousand, a mighty store, The woodpecker's winter—famine no more. And as the cold winds start to sing, The bird will rest, content with spring.
A testament to patience, skill, And nature’s will in seasons still, The woodpecker's legacy, so fine, Is etched in bark, a steadfast sign.
