~

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.