Four ravens sat upon a branch’s vee
Attempting to usurp the prime position,
All croaking in four part polyphony
As if rehearsing for a crow audition

In which their size conferred no special edge,
Requiring the quartet to hone the skill
That might just help their common dream to fledge-
But feuds for fame are always fought uphill.

As I admired their robes of shining black
That whispered as if made from finest silk,
My close attention took them all aback,
Appropriately distrustful of my ilk.

If they retain their native-born suspicion,
Their music will outlive their competition.