Poetry

The Pride Before, 20 (233.)

The owl says to the crow
“How do you do it? You know, go
out when the sky is bright, and everyone
can see you?”
The crow swallows something,
maybe a worm,
maybe a ring,
and says
“We’re not so different, you and I.
Harbingers of death,
fierce and intelligent,
loved by the quirky
and the crafty alike.
I know the fastest routes to travel,
or so they say;
‘as the crow flies’
is the best way.
But they never liken themselves to me;
this is an honor
saved for you and your habits.
I’ve heard many proclaim
‘I’m a night owl’
without blinking.”
The owl ruffles its feathers
and preens its chest.
It takes off without a word,
but the crow is pretty sure
there was a gleam in its eye.

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