The Vote

The avian election was on— Who the leadership's hat should don, Crows clamoured what with loud caws, caws— Born as were with boisterous rotes, Winter gone, heart with dreams of spring, The migrants keen to get on to wings, Some gingerly tried clearing up throats, Hesitant, they might breach green laws. Sparrows made noise, but scarce were heard, Seeing, no other small birds stirred, Crows continued, cried for a vague cause. And they were the ones to win votes. A tradition that still survives— Power of vote from loud mouth derives. _______________________________________________ Reflections | 02.10.16 |