The Forest's Drummer With crimson crest and chisel beak, The woodpecker makes tree trunks creak. Through forests tall, both old and new, They drum their songs the whole day through. Two hundred species worldwide dwell, Each with their own rhythmic spell. Their skulls are built like tiny tanks, With spongy bone in layered ranks. A special muscle holds their brain, Protected from each drilling strain. Their tongues stretch long, with barbs so fine, To pull out grubs from bark and pine. Rat-a-tat-tat echoes clear, A sound that brings both joy and fear. They excavate their nesting holes, In dead wood where the beetle rolls. Each cavity, perfectly round, A nursery safe and snug they've found. The pileated, largest of all, Can make a rectangular call. While tiny downies, black and white, Dance up the bark from morn till night. Some store acorns, thousands deep, In granary trees they always keep. These feathered carpenters work hard, Nature's own construction yard. They clear the forests of disease, By eating bugs with such great ease. So when you hear that drumming sound, Know forest health is all around.