As the crow flies
black against the snow white sky.
Living life ready to die.
Steady, strong and sly.
Took a drink from the fountain,
swung high for the mountain.
Through the air so sleek.
Reached the frosted peak.
Found a perch,
a tall silver birch.
High up in the Catskills.
Took stock of the surrounding hills.
On the look out for fresh kills.
Amongst the abandoned saw mills.
Took flight before the dark of night.
Roosting options so finite.
With the break of first light
soared to a cruising height.
Hung in the air like a kite.
Pensive ready for a fight.
To the death.
Held its breath.
As it spied that mornings prey.
The best start to a cold new day.
Dived down with fantastic speed.
Towards the brush and weed.
Whole being keyed from a creed.
A desperation to feed.
The only thing it would heed
in order to breed.
Was what nature had agreed
it would need.
As The Crow Flies
thejrpc 