Irony in the Sky

White chevron squadrons usher in spring
With squawking and honking and flapping of wings.
Their return brings a weekend to revel in fun.
The locals all love it, and hundreds more come!
But the poor migrant snow goose must be sorely perplexed;
Revered on one weekend, then slaughtered the next!

Horsing Around

If I were a horse, what kind would I be?
A raging white stallion so wild and so free,
Leading the herd to new pastures; green,
Sinuous, shiny; a sight to be seen!
Handsome and striking; pawing the air
I’d be the desire of every young mare.

No, not a stallion; a stunning paint war horse
Adorned with bold markings and feathers of course.
Only a brave chief could sit me astride,
Into the battle we’d gallop and ride!
We’d ride at high noon and into the night
Striking fear in the hearts of all who dare fight!

Oh, who am I kidding? I’m not of that sort!
I’ve hardly the passion to kick or to snort.
A poor sorrel plough horse is what I would be
No stranger to rider nor harness; that’s me!
Wearing white socks; the work I’d enjoy.
With a star on my forehead; I'm such a good boy!