The Elegant Owl perched on a stoop quietly whispering Who?
It saw a small mouse scurry about
Eyes narrowing, it thusly answered...You
With a great FLAP of its wings it began to dive to the ground
The poor little mouse looking and hungry heard not the slightest of sound
As razor sharp talons tore into flesh and lifted it to the air
The poor little mouse, all it could think was, "Golly death isn't fair"
A mouse of a meal, a delectable treat, thought the owl with blood stained beak
Full and not wanting, it resumed its perch on the long high branch
Return to its vigil, a deadly totem watching over the forest.
The elegant owl always asks who.
I love poetry.