Graceful creatures soar, then downwardly glide,
Connecting, with the water, they dig, skim, and slide,
Braking, with quick, sharp slices
Like hockey blades shaving the ices,
They float, with their wings tucked alongside their buoyant bodies,
Their beaks move in unison like line-dancers’ choreographies.
Enter, the fisherman’s catch of the day.
He tosses the sacrificial object as the hungry birds’ prey.
They paddle, and curiously and cautiously move toward it,
As if to measure, and judge it consumable,
Or, “Is it too large of a fit?”
Twice-times they pondered it, and paddled away,
Finally, the foursome pounced towards the prey,
With a determined, winged, splashing, chaotic, wet spray.
Somehow, the “winning” bird scooped up the fish with his beak,
Filling up, stretching his balloon-like pouch with a visibly, elongated treat.
Weighing him down, he hunched over just to stay on the river afloat,
A greedy and selfish, old man donning the appearance of a braggart-like gloat.
As he drifted away with his prize,
His ill-fated destiny one can only surmise,
That his appetite had ruled him more than the common-sense with his eyes.
The remaining threesome continued the actions of their choreographed dance,
Fleeing, flying from their friend’s dire circumstance.
For survivors learn perseverance, and undaunted resilience,
As the river reflects the setting sun’s brilliance.
grmaval 