The Great Grey Owl
The great grey owl sits in the snow,
In all of its basking glory.
Ready to snatch up a poor soul,
Of prey, he likes to dine on.
His feathers flow in the breeze that calls.
They flap and fluff with ease.
His head turns to and fro,
Watching with his great eyes on what's below.
Small and brown it runs.
Leaving a small track in the snow,
A small trace for the owl to follow,
Right to the unsuspecting prey.
To great talons, the prey falls;
Hopeless and helpless it is.
Falling from the sky to down below,
To the open mouths of death.
Back and forth it goes.
From the open mouths of death,
To the breeze that calls,
The great grey owl flies.