The white-browed, fan-tail flycatcher,
Sallies which on airy pamper,
Now seems in offbeat temper,
It sits on the terrace railing,
Perched like the court’s king,
Looks down at a curious pigeon on yard’s wall,
Very curious is the pigeon,
Looking on the floor below,
tentative and looking to make a decision
to collect some grain with precision,
But the flycatcher seems to give a warning,
Its notes already in mourning,
And when its warning tweets fail,
It sallies down to avoid a tragic tale,
It’s sitting higher,
From there the situation looks dire,
A cat is behind a column to sire
a hunting chance to quench its stomach’s fire,
The low-sitting pigeon cannot see
the flycatcher’s warning key,
The flycatcher then does a heroic act,
Inspired by the book of birdie pact,
It sallies down
and almost lands on the pigeon with a frown,
The pigeon moves a bit
to doze the hit,
It but looks determined to pick its grain,
Focused is its brain,
For survival all this pain,
But alas all goes vain.
It lands with a flutter
to the flycatcher’s disgust utter,
All effort to life goes down the gutter,
Pounces fast the cutter,
Clutter and stutter,
The hiding cat is fast,
Emerges full blast,
Flurried flutter and agonized mutter,
Soft meat cut like butter,
Trail of blood on the floor,
Angrily the flycatcher swore,
The cat scurries away with its catch,
Carrying its snatch,
It has kittens to rear,
Little dumplings dear,
Maternal instincts sheer,
I see it relaxing the next day,
Post the successful slay,
A tiny teat
shines with soft pinkish greet,
The meat turned to milk,
Wonderful recycling of life and death,
The handover of breath,--
Old bodies changing into new bodies fresh.
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