Winter woodpecker

The soundtrack to these tree's
was one of hammering hunger.
Young mouths wait,
with a ravenous shiver;
a shiver not shared by father.
He skips and flutters,
flutters and climbs;
a scavange through the fruitless.

Through the tree's density:
Flashes of black and white feathers,
chased by a rear of striking red.
His rear, not the native
to its zebra-like body,
but accompanies him with sanctity.

After the aero acrabatics,
with a gut full of labor and crawlers,
he returns proud with a warm feast.
A king makes, and sits at the table.

The day ages rapid,
fatigue even quicker.
The winter woodpecker closes
eyes to dream of summer.