Fox And Crow Poem by Mai Murphy Venn

In the mist and dead of night,
When not a soul is in sight.
Moving through the grass, I hear.
Whose there, whose there, I declare.
It is he, this he, that foxie mystery.
So cunning is this little fellow.
Crafty, clever, yet can be mellow.
He stops, looks around, no sound.
He moves once more homeward bound.
The dawn breaks, and crows begin.
In the trees, the cacophony sing.
The fox is no match for the crow.
Professor Crows screams loud and low.
He is by far the scholar of the two.
He can visually recall your face.
Do not upset him, whatever you do.
Revenge he can plant on you.
While a feather friend he can be.
Cross him, a rival you will see.
He can do things you will not believe.
He will not give in, but he will grieve.
The poor old fox can turn quite tame.
He sits down with you to play a game.
The crow will find it hard to trust you.
But he will, A friendship good and true.