The screech owl sits, adorable, up in
The open oak, alone and looking out
Upon its prairie that it had to win --
It rules its roost; it sits there with no doubt.
Around the oak are little balls of fur
With girter bones and stomach acid spackle --
The undigested all that's left of her,
The mother mouse. The owl emits its cackle
That terrifies the chimpunks, mice, and shrews,
Then lifts on silent wings. There's no endorphin
Rush -- there's no time to spread the awful news
That crushing claws have made another orphan.
The mouse's skull is crushed by this cold brute,
Who, tufted, colored rust, looks very cute.