In the thinly spindly Glen Resides a lonely clucking hen. Strut and peck, flutter and fluff The bugs she eats are never enough. Leaves ripple with the sound Whispered quiet a question resounds, "Why not fly South this year? Freezing frost will soon be here."
It's a metaphor, for people who hate winter but don't make enough money to go south and avoid the snow. I haven't finished the poem yet.