~
The winter birds
have moved to town
and settled my Maple branches;
but not for long,
they sing no song,
these cronies of Corbies, Comanches!
~
A banded gang of all black bird,
bandits that hang in tether.
What gives them the right
is their power and might,
flexing their feathers together.
~
This hungry horde
scours the sward
from line to limb
for morsel.
A silent scene,
within my yard,
this horde can fill the Maple.
~
There may well be
some forty, to me,
round-robin switching places.
~
What one might miss,
another may flitch –
they leave unturned
no traces.
~
And when each one
has had its fill,
not once
not twice
but thrice,
in sudden swoop
the horde will fell
upon a nearby dale.
~
And landing there
amongst the bare
and mostly leafless branches,
the Corbies compare
their pilfered faire
and share alike their caches.
Copyright © 2012 Marvin Loyd Welborn. All Rights Reserved.
Fan Mail , this one.
They hang out in groups and devour food (sounds like teenagers)
like your word progression here