Winds blow through the trees,
They scatter, flutter all the leaves,
A critter here, a critter there,
Unaware of fire colored hair,
They live in peace, from their birth,
Till they're deceased,
The allure of the seeds,
That drives them from safety,
Of brush and reeds,
And when there is no mind,
The predator attacks from behind,
There is a squawk, there is a screech,
Warning any other critter in ear reach,
They will run, but he is done,
With the final slash,
The predator has won.
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