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.
