My fascination with corvids rear its head again, this time describing a scene I witnessed the other day.
Cries and calls cut through the air,
Harsh beating of their wings.
The combatants fell through the air,
They landed on the ground.
Tumbling over in the brush,
The victors flapped their wings.
With speed they rose up in the air,
Letting out their victory cries.
The loser he was sullen,
He lingered for a time.
All while pesky magpies,
They chattered on and on.
Slowly with precise intent,
The loser crow did rise.
He saw one of his tormentors,
As he rocked upon his branch.
He tried to get much closer,
To try and get revenge.
But the magpies they were clever,
They remained just out of reach.
Soon the crow alone remained,
The one who’d been beaten up.
Ashamed he huddled in the tree,
While above the magpies flew.