Flock away of thirty four gray!
I don’t know how they seem to grow
And where and why, I could just cry.
They will appear when there is fear.
When one is gone another is spawn.
The silver crane picks on a plain
Of sandy shores as it explores
With it long beak — shiny and sleek.
It shoves its head into dark dread.
Its curly locks hide like a fox.
Move dark shadows! It’s time to plow.
We’re looking for our prey galore.
Our relief comes from picking crumbs:–
They’re large and small. We phase through walls.
Do not delay! Where’s our buffet?
A feathery poem about a ‘plucking’ euphemism for food of a gray kind. (Eh?)
Copyright © 2007 by Fluffy von der Flynn. All rights reserved.