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.

[Revised 01 February 2012]

Copyright © 2012 Marvin Loyd Welborn. All Rights Reserved.


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