The Crows Beak
Winters frost appeared one morn.
A black majestic crow, stands stern on my porch,
Early hunter, seeking food for his born.
He poses with dignity, eyes piercing black,
A back of iron, hunting prey as a lion.
A predator with his catch in view,
Soars close to his victim, who has no clue.
A gifted skill which crows take pride,
Their victim, has no time to hide.
If they run, they have no chance,
The crow knew this, upon first glance.
Black beak of steal now opens wide,
His catch a success with just one glide.
A mouse now dangles from his beak,
This feed will last until mid weak,
His born will learn, soon fend alone,
He is superior in there eyes,
A skill past down, for when his born flies.
Expert gliders, generation of providers,
Will continue for years, they shall impress more piers,
Prey caught in a blink,
With a skill of gold, crows shall not turn extinct.
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