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.

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