Upon a branch within a fold of leaves
The Robin sits and silently she grieves
As quickly as the turning of the tide
The mighty hawk has swallowed up her pride
The trees are filled with anger loud and shrill
The hawk waits patiently to claim its kill
Her victory has helped to save the day
As all the baby swallows fly away.
The Robin’s song is one of solitude
As babies fed become the baby food.

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