Silent collectors of rain and river, they mirror the sky's gaze and cradle islands within their gentle embrace.

Guardian shields of the sky, they bloom above in gloomy times, a canopy of colors that dances with the wind, keeping the drips and drops at bay.

Do their jobs or are fat and lazy Only people that love them call people who don’t crazy Golden, white, small and tall Some people still hate them all

A bird preyed, its mistaken for a green fleshy food.

I am the doomslayer of chickens, with knives in each hand. Fear my apathy, for I’m known to startle quickly. My preferred habitat is guerrilla warfare.