Voracious is his appetite

For that which scurries in his sight

Inside this little acre’s banks

He finds the bellies, cheeks, and flanks

Sees them, pounces, and devours

The mouse and mole, their final hour

I see this each and every day

The perch, the drop, death’s cruel play

Tragic yes, for those that nourish

Needed though, so he may flourish

One harsh truth, it’s not their living

It’s in their death that they are giving

Real worth and value to their kind

The ones we humans often find

Stuck on traps of glue or worse

Death by bird? Or a sticky hearse

What can I say?  Was a slow day in the newsroom!

😉