The Owl
An Owl sits high up in a tree
Looking so forlorn
Icicles hang down from the branches
His hat and scarf well worn
The Snow is falling relentlessly
Feet are almost frozen to the bone
His beady eyes glare constantly
As he braves the storm alone
His thoughts return to his old barn home
Which is not so far away
So off he flies through the forest so white
To return another day
As the snow falls on his feathers
He shakes to clean
Back to his safe abode high up in the barn
To wait for more clement weather
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