The Mouse and the Vulture
Conner Johnson
The sun shines down on an Alabama day.
Its beams alight on the landscape below.
There, in the brightness, the trees are at play,
The grass dances ‘round while the white flowers sway.
And the birds chase the wind where it blows.
In the sun is a scene, in the scene there’s a farm
With livestock that go ‘bout their way.
With a barn of the simplest of charm,
With a peaceful pond designed to disarm.
With warmth that gives shame to the day.
Our journey begins in the barn’s shaded loft
Where a hunched, solemn shadow is perched.
His face is hard, his feathers are soft,
He peers through the day as the breeze blows across.
And his beak is dry with the fire of thirst.
An acre away, a pond lies in wait.
He spreads his great wings and takes flight.
What he doesn’t know is the knowledge of fate.
Other creatures had come to drink and weren’t late.
The beasts of the barnyard had come to the sight.
Gathered to drink, they began to converse.
The horse spoke to the pig that stood by his side.
“Hello pig, how do you do?
It is quite a morning to trot in the dew.
Perhaps later when our drinking is through
Let’s go to the meadow and take in the view.”
The pig raised his head up from his drink
He turned his long snout toward the horse.
“Howdy horse, I’ll be spending my day with the cow.
Come with us, we’re be goin’ to the orchard an hour from now.”